


The Day My Brother

by WhiteGloves



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Big Brother Mycroft, Brother Feels, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Bonding, Family Fluff, Gen, Hurt Mycroft, Hurt Sherlock, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft IS the British Government, Protective Mycroft, Protective Sherlock, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Being a Good Brother, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-05-09 07:40:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 65,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14711900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteGloves/pseuds/WhiteGloves
Summary: A fatal day that brought the Holmes brothers apart, relationship estrange and unrecognizable when Mycroft lost his memories. With amnesia playing, how will Sherlock repair the damage, and how will he save his brother who for one, was a stranger in a black suit? -brother Holmes-center!





	1. Made A Mistake

***** **The Day My Brother** *****

_**by: WhiteGloves** _

_It's been so long! I miss this! T.T_

_I think I will especially like this story ;)_

_Thank you for reading **The Day My Brother...**_

* * *

**1: Made a Mistake**

* * *

Mycroft was seething. It was unusual that he was worked up, but he was very  _very tired_ having been up for 36 hours, so it was understandable that his patience was very very  _thin_. The Royal Wedding has just occurred and every detail about it was a bible to him— details have passed his office for consultation, confirmation and approval—as it had for the past three months and it was nonstop till today, even when everything was over. From the 600 hundred guests in St. George, the parade at Windsor Castle, to all the flower arrangements, tailoring arrangements, candle arrangements down to the horses to be used, he knew everything. All the people  _involved. All hundreds of them._  He has pictured every possible scenarios and has prepared every ounce of security his office could commit for the safety of not only the Royalties but also the country's people.

No one ever needed to doubt Great Britain's protection when he was on watch. But mostly he was adamant to avoid the unwarranted scandal his government would receive if anything happened, especially in this warring times of social media—naturally speaking of the man in White House. He'd be devastated if the pink-plum-blonde man took on to twitter and engaged twitter war with Britain's fastest twitter user—his younger brother.

Mycroft cringed at the thought for that was the last thing he needed—  _petty issues_ that would make the Queen call him to smack him on the shoulder with her royal fan.  _Anything but the royal fan._

So the tiniest detail was reported to him, the slightest change from the many scenarios he saw must be reported. Anything out of the ordinary.  _Anything at all._  The event then went on, smoothly at first, then began the rouse of the rats from the sewers and one by one, Mycroft's men were upon them. With his two thousand men deployed in civilian clothes and properly instructed by none other him, these criminals were all bound to be caught, like school of goldfish unaware of the nets already surrounding them, heaving them up to the surface to be taken.

So far his men had taken custody of about seventy-five suspicious people, half of which were actual perpetrators, fifteen working on their own gain, ten anarchists, two were considered highly dangerous while the rest were just civilian out to get some attention. Nasty bit, the last group, he'd have to teach them a lesson they'd never forget by starting of suspending all twitter accounts.

The last group actually tested his patience more than he thought it would. Because  _some people and their attention seeking bandwagons._ What has the world come into. All of these troubles, Mycroft answered as best as he could and his decisions were always on point and followed. So when received that phone call and heard that some foreign VIP who would be staying in the country for a prolonged vacation wanted sovereign rights to go travel without escorts, his poor-lack-of-sleep-paper-thin patience  _snapped._

He clutched his mobile close on his ears, his right hand rubbing the pen between his fingers, his brows furrowed and the curl on his lips visible by the screen of his laptop. The Wedding may have been gone and over with, but he was not one to believe that such opening on a storm could pass without a final attempt. And  _these_  visitors wanted what?

"Ridiculous." He muttered with much relish as he sat on his lone chair inside his dark office.

_"It's what they want."_

"Nonsense, I wouldn't have it—we will not remove the escorts be them officials, celebrities or whatnot. I don't care if the wedding is over, even idiots know that's when the threat goes and deliver. It is no business of mine  _where they want to go,_ but as long as they are in this country, they will follow the protocol. No, it's not condescending,  _it's me._  You really want to contradict me at this stage now, Harry?"

The gentleman on the other end began explaining again, but Mycroft suddenly perked his eyes up, wondering if what he was hearing was true:  _noise in his office!_ He waited for a few more second, thinking of the impossibility, but then there really was that raucous sound that he had to raise his eyes towards his closed door, again his thin eyebrows up to his hairline as he heard commotion outside that could only mean his only VIP has decided to drop by.  _After declining to offer a helping hand, this brother of mine…_

 _"The threat has passed—"_ came the voice his phone again.

"That's what they said on the  _Manchester Bombing_  on 96. I was so negligent not to insist."

_"Mycroft, these are American adults we speak of. Friends of the Duke of Sussex—"_

"Need I say more?"

Mycroft frowned as the people outside became nosier and dropped his pen on his table, his eyes casting a side look to his umbrella perfectly hanging on the edge of his table. The noise came closer, he wondered if someone was actually wrestling with his brother.

"This is no longer open for discussion, Harry. They abide or they get abducted for interrogation by me, for why else would they request something so absurd? I assure you I will promise them a memorable vacation that'd be haunting them on their sleep. Hang up now, I have something at hand."

He hung up on that last sigh of his acquaintance, just as the door opened and his younger brother donning that black coat of his came barging in like the whirlwind with an air of impishness Mycroft so deplores.

But he was tired, feeling irritated and he did not bother to conceal this to Sherlock who immediately recognized his older brother's mood and was giving him that mysterious grin as if to say he was about to add to his troubles. Mycroft leaned back to his chair to ease his body, preparing for the blow that was ever  _Sherlock Holmes._

"What have you done? Now?" Mycroft began with an eye towards the doorway for the footsteps outside were still thunderous, after his brother's wake Sherlock stopped in front of him, his eyes on the mobile phone.

"Went all out, did you?" of course he was referring to the  _wedding._

"I never hold back—"

"I was talking about the money spent." Sherlock gave him a nasty look so condemnatory it took Mycroft a minute to seize control of his own snappy remark, knowing full well the conversation will only be digging holes in the already debatable topic his brother was obviously aiming for to get information. All the money, government fund, citizens' taxes—who was he going to share it, Mrs. Hudson?

He pressed his lips and stared at Sherlock impassively.

"Cheers to you for being a republican, but you don't need to go further, I know what you're doing. Is that dear land lady well?"

"She's been harpooning about the dream wedding, so quaint. Wouldn't hurt to dispel her with facts about the bills."

"Wouldn't hurt you if you shut up about it."

"Oh please."

"What is this?" Mycroft now watched as two of his men came in, half dragging, half pulling a man in patched jacket— homeless man, wearing his blue winter jacket with thick grey fur, dark pants and running shoes. His face was hidden in a bulging dirty face mask, his messy hair entangled with his wool hat. The older Holmes easily stood up and placed both hands on the edge of his table as he sensed danger at the man's every step. This was his secret office—for an outsider to come in was dangerous!

"Sherlock?" he flashed his brother an angry look, "For Christ sake—"

"You better ask who, social protocol, I never understood, obviously you had to—you work in the government." Sherlock rambled with a heave of sigh and stood sideways so the man became visible to Mycroft's eyes. The older Holmes noted the unknown man remained rooted on the spot with arms locked on each side of the guards. "Anyways, I found him on the usual spot of our old homeless guy—actually, my homeless network I placed outside your building—you know for curiosity purposes—"

"I know about him." Mycroft said firmly. "He reports what I want him to report."

A look of displeasure crossed the consultant detective's face upon knowing the double agent but whatever was on his mind, he didn't seem interested to share as he went on—

"You know I change them every week."

"I know you realise when they've been compromised by me otherwise I would have mocked you long ago, it's a child's game." Mycroft didn't take his eyes off their hostage. "This is outrageous; you know you shouldn't have brought him here. Are you planning a heartfelt confession?"

"Ah, no." Sherlock's impassive face told Mycroft everything was indeed, a game, "I came and noticed him, realized he's not the last man I hired so observe? What do you think he is? He's not yours, I confirmed now, nor mine—so what was he doing on the spot where my homeless network was supposed to be stationed—who by the way—I found dead this morning."

Mycroft's eyes widened and shot the stranger a look of apprehension. The younger Holmes crossed his arms.

"You were so busy you didn't notice your mistake—"

"A terrorist right under my nose, Sherlock—but why bring him here?!" Mycroft angrily retorted, "This doesn't repair anything—if anything this makes things worst! Have you really gone insane?"

"He's a spy—isn't that what you're best playing at? And what else should have I done?"

"Exactly what should you have done?!"

Sherlock smirked and at that instant Mycroft understood. "Mistakes brother, sometimes have to be rubbed in your face. Besides, we both know he's not coming out of here.  _Ever_. So what are you so afraid of?"

Mycroft grinded his teeth. "This is still thoughtless! Reckless! He could have installed chips, bombs, GPS—"

"He got nothing, I checked."

" _Sherlock_ —!?"

For his younger brother had turned his back and was already heading towards the door.

"Not my problem." He said, waving a hand up and disappearing outside the door, but not before he added, "I was just doing what normal citizens do, brother. Help the country. I hope it's your last one."

And he was gone.

Mycroft was left staring at the space Sherlock disappeared to and wondered why his brother always acted the way he did.  _Careless._  A number of protocol was wasted, he risked national security, and worst, he had betrayed his older brother and exposed his office to danger that may seem minor at first but has colossal end result.

And the colossal event began exactly that moment, when the man in front of him suddenly made drastic movements—elbowed his captors violently—Mycroft was quick to reach his umbrella but it was too late when the terrorist pulled out his face mask with his bare teeth exposed—biting on a small device in between his teeth that blinked with a count of—

_3…2…1…_

_Oh, Sherlock._

There was not much in the last seconds that ran except his umbrella was on his hand— and then that deathly bang.

* * *

**-To be Continued-**

* * *

**_A/N:_ ** _Glad to be back with a bang! As short as it can be^^_

_I always need a string to tie it in the real world!_

_The Wedding asked for another Holmes brothers fic!_

_i hope the real world gives me time -._ -

**Thank you for Reading!**


	2. Met a Stranger

***** **The Day My Brother** *****

_**by: WhiteGloves** _

_I missed you all too!_

_Things got out of hand because of a game~_

_Thank you for reading an_ _other chapter of **The Day My Brother...**_

* * *

**2: Met A Stranger**

* * *

It was a blast that wrecked his own eardrums and shook his legs very bad he fell violently on the ground flat on his stomach, his face kissing the ground painfully— but it didn't stop there. The loud bang had caused his ears to ring and the dust to cloud his eyes; the next thing he knew the ground had stopped vibrating. Trying to shake away the numbness on his face and the loud popping in his eyes ears—he felt terrible aches on his joints and the disorientation.

 _Bomb_ he figured.

But then something else occurred to him, something important his head was reminding him that made him turn his heavy body around, his eyes still adjusting in the darkness. That was when he saw the giant smokes coming out of a room.

A room he had just left not a minute ago— _burning._

In instant, Sherlock was scrambling to his feet albeit not so easily, his adrenaline rushing to his whole body as he remembered with dread someone he had to get out— _someone who must absolutely be alive—_

_Mycroft—!_

* * *

_Three hours ago…_

A warm Sunday was greeted with impasse by Londoners, the excitement of the Royal Wedding having all died down the previous day; some would say it was typical  _British_ others would simply shrug and say royal weddings are as common as telephone box around. Still, only few people were on the side street of Westminster, striding in all purpose and somewhat in haste; cabs were barely passing by and though it was one of those fine days rare to the city, no one seemed eager to go out on picnic or crowded place. It was _not safe,_ they said.  _Better be careful,_  they reasoned.

Nobody knew where or how this word of mouth began but there seemed to be this understanding— some people saying they heard it through the grapevine that stepping outdoors was still dangerous; that even after that most awaited event of the year was over, the danger in the streets had not subsided, and in fact the threat was most profound. The unexpected attack.  _The silent anticipation._

Meanwhile in the liveliest area of Baker Street, the Speedies Café— like its daring neighborhood living up to its reputation, was full of its patrons cheering on the television broadcasting in detail and repeatedly, the previous events that captured the attention of the whole world:  _The Royal Wedding._ One of them was the Baker Street landlady who was staring dreamily on to the screen while holding a sachet of tea on one hand while the other rested on her breast, clearly too overwhelmed by the magic held on the screen she had seen many times. After watching the two beloved princes, who lost their mother at a young age, grow up into fine young gentlemen and marry, who in Britain would not be in a glorious mood?

A deep, unsatisfied scoff was then heard coming from the above flat.

_Apparently, someone wasn't._

Above the unsuspecting  _Speedys_ was a contrast picture of the darkened windows. As brightness tried to pierce through its closed curtains, a sense of forbidding remained inside this gloomy corner of the 221B. A silent figure of a tall man with curly hair was standing immobile by the window with his face lacking features of  _care._  Wearing his dark suit with the absence of his tie, he stood rigidly on the spot, one hand holding on to the curtain with all intent to  _see_ but not be seen, one hand inside his pocket, dark eyes not leaving the pavement, lips perfectly pressed and his chin raising and falling as he made mental note of the doom waiting the world if he did not receive that awaited confirmation…

His phone's message alert then went off. He immediately scanned it just as he heard his flat mate's footsteps arrive. Sherlock didn't have to turn, his full attention already fixated on the messages that came one after another:

_[Confirmed. That's not what Drox said.]_

_[Mobile lost]_

_[We have a rat.]_

His quick hands were not as fast as his mind which was already going through the other reports from his networks and comparing them—finding discrepancies that shot fireworks in his eyes—  _the excitement reverberating through his fingers._

_Finally, a game!_

"People outside aren't too happy to be outdoors, you know what I mean, Sherlock?" The ex-army doctor returned from the groceries and though Sherlock was not aware at what point of time he actually went there the obvious scraping sound of grocery bags and its contents was enough for him to deduce what they would be having for dinner.

_Yes, he could tell._

"If you mean they suddenly realize they wake up only to die one day, then yes."

"Rumors of terrorist attack has been going on lately. Is it Mycroft's doing to keep everyone in their houses?"

"If it's him he'd order another Operation Temperer, a Martial Law. Five thousand soldiers on streets no question asked. No, it's not him, it's the people waking up to the fact that they are deluding themselves thinking they are safe and protected."

"Operation—? Didn't the Prime Minister just declare that?"

"On Mycroft's advice. Apparently, an aggressive move he calculated necessary. My brother is merely an intelligence tool planted to get ahead of enemies. His precision in counterattacks and predicting enemy movements have been vital for the government. But he's not infallible."

John frowned as he sensed something. "Everyone's on their toes and wary, Sherlock. While this entire morning you've just been standing there like you're waiting for your Christmas present—what's going on?"

"Nothing I can tell you that you don't already know, John, or are you feigning ignorance to the obvious?" he shot his friend a sharp look, " _I'm on a case._ A very…. interesting case." He went on as he hurtled his fingers on the keypad.

His message alert went off again— consecutively— making Sherlock steal a glance at his flat mate before replying speedily. John stared at the phone and his best friend in amusement as he read the signs. "That's not Mycroft, is it? He doesn't know of this  _'case_? Didn't he specifically warned you to be on your best behavior two weeks ago for the sake of the wedding?"

"Why must this wedding stop my own case when it's happening?" Sherlock injected with some asperity, "He asked me for help, I declined—what makes you think I'd listen to his threat?"

"Sherlock, I know you're bored, but if it's something to do with Mycroft's job—shouldn't you be telling him?"

"What makes you think I haven't?" Sherlock responded slowly.

"Mycroft  _never texts,_ remember?" John moved closer to him, the grocery bags forgotten on the table, "And he's been especially busy these past few months, if he knows what you're up to he would've run me over with his car. So talk."

 _Oh, the spoil._ Sherlock hated it when the doctor uses what little common sense he has. Finally, the consulting detective glanced up and looked his friend in the face, his true features of excitement showing and could not be contained any longer.

"There is a game staring me in the nose, John…I can't afford interruptions. Not even Mycroft."

 _"Interruptions?_  Is it related to terrorists' cells?"

"Possibly." the detective snapped, turning back to the window as a last message arrived:

_[Dead body unidentified found]_

Sherlock stared at it, his eyes flickering and his mind racing. After two days of suspicion within his networks,  _now a body._  The detective stared into a space, before replying to his correspondence. He wanted to jump up and down at the development; wanted to show the ecstasy he felt at the moment for it was a  _challenge_ — within his own homeless network—someone trying to outwit him, use his network to their evil gain—someone smart enough to even realize the full potential of paid observant on the streets—  _and counter him—_

The detective raised his head and glanced sideways at the doctor behind him whose eyes widened as he understood his friend's quirks.

"What? Is someone dead?"

"Yes."

The doctor stood straight. "Was it one of Mycroft's men?"

"No."

_"Yours?"_

"One of my networks." Sherlock finally spilled in an indifferent tone. "There's a string amongst my network that's been giving false report about their whereabouts, what they do, see and what's happening. That's a loophole in my networks, John. Once infiltrated by an outsider, the rest of the string trembles and I have to go through them one by one to find it. I can't really offer any help to Mycroft when my system's imperfect, he'll only take it against me for trusting loose ends. He hates loose ends. Better sort it on my own."

His eyes gleamed at the prospect of hunting down among his networks and find whoever was the mastermind and show him he was picking a fight with the wrong person. John, however, didn't look convinced.

"But you can trace it, can't you?"

"Of course. It's only a matter of time."

"You think it has anything to do with the terrorist alert?"

"Of course—"

 _"Then why not tell Mycroft?"_  John insisted, his eyebrows contorted so closely it threatened to fall off. Sherlock rounded around him agitatedly— _why can't John understand—?_

"Because it's my network! My own devise— my case! Let Mycroft deal with his wedding and his spies— he isn't the only smart guy in this country." His mobile's ringtone rang again and Sherlock was on it at once. "And apparently someone who decided they can beat me in my own territory thinks he's being smart too."

"Where are you going?" for Sherlock suddenly whirled around, grab his thick coat and ran down the stairs— "I'll let you know." He called back without turning, his spirit on fire at the last message he received:

_[St. George Cathedral]_

* * *

It took three rings before his brother picked up the phone.

_"Godsake, Sherlock, if you can't be part of my solution, don't be part of my anything at all."_

"Happy to hear from you too."

_"I'm hanging up."_

"This is important."

_"So is what I heard from London Eye just now. A twitter account user had posted a message with you 'photobombing', apparently. The use of words these days could send people locked up in the olden days."_

"You've been monitoring everything closely, haven't you?" Sherlock asked quietly.

 _"Why, did you notice anything?"_  his brother was ever alert when monitors were concerned. Typical Mycroft.

"I wouldn't have bothered if I didn't." Sherlock, who was now inside St. Barts, looked down the table onto a dead body of a man his network found inside the dumpster at the back street of St. George Cathedral. Sherlock had commended the St. George hint for it was the same name of the church where the royal couple tied the knot, except that St. George Cathedral was around London while the venue for the wedding was St. George Chapel in Windsor Castle. He couldn't help but feel thrilled at the obvious name similarity.

His villain had style.

But Sherlock was unable to identify the body for he was a new member of the network invited by someone else for easy money. The detective had to run around for other clues, other suspicious places where this man could have met his undoing, his mind palace, already visiting all the places he planted his people— from Westminster to London eye, to the Buckingham Palace and Big Ben.  _What else did his other network see? Where was this man last located?_

_[Central London]_

That was the moment Sherlock had dialed for Mycroft's number as something else occurred to him, like a premonition or some sort.

"I have a situation."

_"Is it another photo bomb, brother? I am sorry but I will not be suspending any twitter accounts—"_

"Have you been taking sarcastic pills lately?" Sherlock snapped at this attitude.

_"No, just, sleepless. Well, whatever the situation is, you better fix it, my hands are full no thanks to you. I had to arrange another thousand men because you said no in helping your country and I'm telling you brothermine, I'm taking that against you for a long time."_

"Obviously, your thousand is still not enough or my end wouldn't have suffered."

_"Oh, now you can take it against yourself too. Now that's clear, what is the situation?"_

"There's a dead body. My network."

_"Mmmm… that is… concerning. Can't you even help solve this one? I understand you really have nothing at hand unlike what you expect me to believe."_

"Mycroft," Sherlock now said in a soft voice, his eyes unblinking, his tone serious, "keep your head up, will you? Something's coming."

_"If I didn't know that already you would not have found me available. I would have dosed myself in some 24 hours sleep and sending anyone who disturbs me in the gutter. Oh well, I just wanted to say that. Now— this catastrophe you speak of, what alert am I being consulted for?"_

"Possibly critical."

_"Now you're talking. We're already on maximum alert even without you adding anything thank you very much. "Is it possible this 'situation' only concerns you and 221B?"_

"I wouldn't be calling you if it does—I'd be knocking on your office personally."

_"Of course. Priorities. Anything else?"_

"I may have caused a little problem around Big Ben too."

_"By all means, wreak havoc in the city, Sherlock. Like another mishap from you can surprise me."_

"Should I say the sweetest gratitude?"

 _"Gracious, no. But I'll give you a word of advice so heed it— behave!"_  and Mycroft hung up, leaving Sherlock to follow one more inquiry.

* * *

Half an hour later, Sherlock found himself outside Mycroft's building, looming over a man who was sitting on one of the posts, sitting so small it was hard to distinguish him from the trash bin. But Sherlock was watching him with keen interest, his eyes taking everything on the man's features because for one—he does not recognize the man.

A complete stranger.

What happened to the last homeless network standing watch here? Apparently dead. The stranger in St. Barts? The other rats must have arranged the change in people so. But still for this to go this further...

The detective looked up Mycroft's building with creased eyebrows. Was this what Mycroft meant by maximum alert? Leaving his own building defenseless because he knows its his younger brother's network?

And was this how the game would end? Finally finding his next clue outside his brother's building because obviously whoever set up the mole on his network did not actually consider Sherlock the target—his number was one message away and they did not threaten him to expose himself so why must there be elaborate lies? And if not him who else was there to be a target that had any connection with the consulting detective? Someone so important Sherlock had to be the leverage?

His mind sprung to his networks watching over the only person fitting the category:  _his brother._

"Never checks closer to home." Sherlock looked down the stranger who was now watching him too. The detective frowned and stepped toward the man who sat steadfast at his shadow. "Who are you?"

The man didn't reply, his dirty facemask covering half his face, but neither did he move another muscle. He just stared at the detective as if deciding something internally and struggling. Sherlock observed the man's hands, his body bulges, his pants and saw no shape of anything that could be considered dangerous. He looked around the man's surrounding too and saw no sign of anything suspicious.

Just a spy caught in the crossfire.

Sherlock now had to make a decision—to reveal everything to Mycroft or continue with the chase of his network's virus using this man as a clue—the game was a foot and he had to decide.

A few seconds later, he was already phoning his brother. Nothing satisfies him better than to rub Mycroft's mistake in his face. To have Mycroft realize that he had a mole right under his nose was something Sherlock wouldn't miss for the world—hence the mobile phone.

_Cannot be reached._

Shaking his head, Sherlock looked up and motioned two secret service men in civilian shirts but who could not quite blend in in Sherlock's opinion and who had been watching him for sometime now to come closer. They know who he was and it was helpful.

They will help him barge in his brother's office personally because this was a  _priority._

Minutes later, a part of the ground floor exploded.

* * *

**_Present…_ **

Sherlock stayed silent inside 221B Baker Street that night, all his energy drained and forgotten. He had survived the attack with minor scratches but his brother wasn't as fortunate, or so he heard.

A good five hours had passed since then, since all the ambulance and running around and the blood had all become a blur and all that was left was panic. But Mycroft lived, that was all that matters. There was a surgery on his head, stitches on a bump. All his statistics were fine except for a broken right arm—apparently it received the shock when he opened his impact-proof umbrella in the midst of the tension.

Two secret service men died. One suicide bomber. Five other wounded including him.

But Mycroft lives.

Sherlock breathed a sigh, his dark eyes staring blankly on to his flat's window glasses, reflecting his darkened image again, his face with few red scratches, his eyes gloomy and waiting for the doom to come. Seconds next, his phone rang and Sherlock allowed it sometime before answering. He heard John's voice on the other line but did not answer.

_"Sherlock, I know you're there. Look, Mycroft's been up for a while now and… you know he needs help. He doesn't speak much but he's there, you know? Why don't you come here and see if you can jog his memory a bit? Sherlock?"_

"What's the point, John, you're all stranger to him." He didn't remember his voice being so deep.

_"The point is not about him not remembering, Sherlock—the point is you being here."_

Oh, but he was there an hour ago, in the hospital with them and waiting. Mycroft had finished his surgery in an hour and a half, they were told then to wait and Sherlock had his cuts checked and with John's advice, called his parents. Two hours later, Mycroft stirred and both Sherlock and John were there for him.

Till he opened his eyes, pure horror reflected on them—horror Sherlock never knew Mycroft was capable of having. His older brother breathed quick, his panic was nothing compared to what Sherlock experienced when he was pulling his brother under the debris—no, this was different.

John tried to calm him but Mycroft spoke, stuttering at first—and it was Sherlock who ceased to be calm when he caught the fright in his brother's usually sharp, grey eyes and heard him shout in a high-pitched voice—questions of his identity and everyone else.

Sherlock threw his phone away just as John began explaining about the Secret Service and his parents had arrived and how both parties were already arguing the best thing to do for the patient in his state. Sherlock heard him but there was a more pressing matter at hand—  _the hollowed feeling deep in his chest._

Sherlock put both hands together. He sat back on his chair, elbows on each side, his mind reeling back to that episode in the hospital again and again till he pressed his nose and lips to his clasped hands, finally sliding his face on his palms and giving a long, drawn out sigh.

_What could be done?_

_And why was he afraid of meeting him again?_

_The stranger with his brother's grey eyes._

* * *

**-To be Continued-**

* * *

**_A/N: This could get a little painful in the heart okay?_ **

_BTW!_

_I was so excited when I heard Mycroft and Sherlock's latest interaction on youtube!_ _It was a Moftiss gift! I am dying!_

 _And I am so pumped up to continue this because the brothers are so~_ _Did you all participate? Its on their website!_

_Youtube has it under **Agent221B- Intercepted Audio Mycroft and Sherlock!**_

_The game is a foot there and here!_

**Thank you for Reading!**


	3. Disappeared

***** **The Day My Brother** *****

_**by: WhiteGloves** _

_"There are some things we can never assign to oblivion,_

_memories we can never rub away" -HM_

**The awaited encounter!**

_Thank you for reading an_ _other chapter of_

_**The Day My Brother...** _

* * *

**3: Disappeared**

* * *

It was characteristically cold in London again with the night finally reaching its peak, and the hour of when any  _proper_ people were least on the street

Sherlock Holmes never shy away from the hour, still walking on the dark side street, both hands jammed inside the thick pocket of his black coat, his bundle of scarf covering most of his neck; his eyes as sharp as they can be with a silent dark glint that appeared most intimidating to those who saw him. Though he may have been like that on some occasions, tonight was different. It was clear detective was out on a very serious scent, for why else would he look so grave and solemn as if the whole world was against him?

The detective paved his way to the 221B locked door and didn't bother with anyone till he was on his own doorstep. He took his keys from his pocket with a silent curt of eyebrows, pushed the black door opened and shut it after his back.

Going up the stairs, he quickly ascended to his rooms and didn't even wonder why the doors were left open as he reached the top. But he did slow his pace, suddenly becoming aware of the aroma of tea and lights coming from the living room where the television was also still  _on._

Obviously, someone else was waiting at home to monitor him finally, and to reprimand him.

 _Because apparently his older brother could not._  Sherlock shrugged the thought and doubled his pace in going up the stairs. As expected, John stirred from his chair as Sherlock came and both did not say a word as the detective removed his coat and scarf, and then put it on the rack. Seconds next, the telly was turned off as John stood up awkwardly and gestured at the kitchen table.

"Mrs. Hudson left you something on the counter. She said you're to eat it while it's hot, but you've no complaints about cold food before, right?"

Sherlock nodded without meeting his best friend's eyes.  _Silence._

John's eyebrow contracted. "Bitter cold outside? In June?"

Sherlock shook his dark suit next, leaving only his white shirt.

"Interesting case?" the doctor prompted now sounding on the edge.

Sherlock threw away the suit on the couch and unbuttoned his sleeves, still not answering. John also didn't move from the spot, his eyes boring on the detective. When it was apparent there was no exchange of words going to happen, John heaved a sigh and turned his heels with a shake of head—but then he turned around again, his eyes now hard.

"I  _forgot_  to tell you," it was with a most patient tone, " _your brother's in the hospital with amnesia—_ it has been two days and you haven't even the decency to go visit him—" John's voice rose, " _for godsake Sherlock—stop ignoring the man!"_ John's voice trembled as he spoke, his jaw lines set and teeth clenched.

"I'm not ignoring him." Sherlock said quite passively as he moved around the room to put his phone down the table near the window, "And he's not going anywhere."

"He can't go anywhere because he doesn't even know who he is! He needs you, Sherlock!"

"You say that but either me or anyone, it's as broad as it's long."

"What—?"

"All he needs is someone to tell him who he is," Sherlock abruptly replied, taking a side glance at his friend with his sharp eyes, "You've called our parents, you know him—give him his file, let him read. I'm certain the Secret Service will only be too eager to provide information." John stared at Sherlock with such disbelief, the detective had to lean down the chair between them and grip its back—why can't they understand—? He saw John breathe something like curse and was forced to continue, "Mycroft is a  _thinking machine_. Give him all the information he needs, he'll absorb it and he'll figure it all out."

"That—that's not—" John tried as he saw something behind the detective's dark eyes that made him pull himself and heave a sigh again, a hand passing through his face, "The doctor said his memory could improve if we talk to him—he's calmed down, now Sherlock and he's trying to understand! He will remember if only you—"

Sherlock straightened with such a force and turned his back and face the window side, his hands on his waist. The next time he turned, his face was flushed in strain with eyes flashing—

"Do you know how to read an MRI because clearly you're lacking some basic brain pathology skills. It showed his brain's damaged on the temporal lobe— _he not only won't remember who he is, he will have remotely no idea of whose around him—_ so it doesn't matter if he sees me or not—not even another blow in the head can save him—this isn't your telly dramas— _he won't remember!"_

"But at least visit him— _try, Sherlock!"_

"I've no interest in him when he's got no wits to display—" he threw harshly—

John's hand formed fists. "Damn it, if you were my brother I would have punched you in the face—"

"Why are you defending him?"

_"He's sick, Jesus!"_

"Like half the world, you mean?"

_"What's the matter with you?"_

"The matter is  _I don't need you telling me when I know what I'm doing!"_

_"Exactly what are you doing?"_

" _Boys!"_

Both men glanced fiercely at the landlady's direction who came up in their room in her bathrobe with a perplexed look on her face.

"The neighbors are still asleep, what are you two rowing about?"

"John's having a row." Sherlock turned his back from the two and slipped inside his room while John and Mrs. Hudson exchanged looks. Few minutes later, the detective came out again now wearing a purple shirt he was fixing the collar from the back. He walked past the two towards the couch where he took his black suit and wore it again.

"They're going to take him tomorrow." Came John's voice next. Sherlock paused for a moment as he pulled the suit around his chest. When he still didn't say anything, John went on more calmly, "The Secret Service— _The Cabinet_  won't have it. Lady Smallwood already made arrangements. They couldn't get a hold of you so she spoke to me. Your parents think its best too, or at least, they were personally contacted by someone higher than the Cabinet… to explain the situation. It's a national risk, so if you want to have a say about it, you better do it quick."

"Oh, I have a say about it." Sherlock turned to the hanger and slid himself on his dark coat, eyes now traveling to John he continued,  _"_ They better do something about their security in the first place." He gave the doctor a meaningful look, before trudging past him again, out of the room onto the stairs.

Mrs. Hudson quickly glanced at the doctor, before running after Sherlock already disappearing on the first landing. "Sherlock— where are you going?"

"Out." He opened the door—

 _"At this hour?"_  she called but he slammed the door shut, "But it's midnight!"

* * *

The last he saw Mycroft was when his brother woke up after the surgery. He watched Mycroft become aware of his consciousness and before the nurses could ask if he knew who he was, Mycroft was already unstoppable with words—

 _"What are we doing here? Where am I? Where's my umbrella?"_ every after five minutes before Sherlock fled the scene.

Then John said it was bad after that. Sherlock couldn't know. He didn't come visit for a good two days. But the good doctor reported, albeit gingerly, how Mycroft had perfected asking so many questions and staying silent at the same time. The doctors evaluated the severity of his amnesia and out of ten, he got two. He got Princess Diana's name correctly and the date of her death but not who his husband was. Mycroft didn't remember who he was, nor five hours later, nor the next day. That was when the doctors told everyone to prepare for the worst.

But a day after, Mycroft had calmed down after speaking with his parents. And he asked questions. How he was seamlessly putting things together but never say out loud what he thought of it. And his migraine was worse.

And he not only not remembered the events prior to the explosion, but the very essence of his  _M._  John tried explaining to him the nature of the explosion when asked but Mycroft had looked so horrified that the doctor decided against continuing. He then urged Sherlock to go and explain because no other person was suited for the job but the younger Holmes refused to come.

He refused to meet his injured brother who for the life of him, Sherlock was sure never missed him. Visits to patients with amnesia seems to be pointless. More so to a man he's known all his life. Of course, John was angry, Sherlock was also angry and his parents were concerned. The only person seemed unaffected was after all, Mycroft.

Still, there was a mystery of finding himself inside the patient's room that night, when he couldn't shake it off his head anymore and let his impulsiveness govern his stubbornness. He was Sherlock Holmes, even he was unaware of the surprises he could make. The guards made no attempt to stop him and he was sure to criticize them later when his eyes fell on his wounded brother and everything else on the outside world was forgotten.

Here he was,  _the spoils of the game._

Mycroft Holmes slept peacefully on the white bed with his white sheet, his face ashen with long, dried red gashes on his face, his whole forehead covered with bandage and his lips dry. There were some beads of sweat on the side of his eyes and his right arm was still wrapped in blue cast around his neck but apart from that he looked comfortable.

And he was breathing easily. The man slept soundly, and he remained undisturbed for a length of time, his body requiring such rest after the strenuous days of ordeal.

Sherlock stood on the farthest, darkest corner of the room in case the man suddenly woke up from his well-earned slumber and get alarmed. He didn't want to disturb his older brother than he already was. So, he stayed there, silent. For hours he did without fail.  _Thinking…_

Then his brother's eyes fluttered open without warning sometime past midnight, the grey eyes stared straight into the ceiling for good ten seconds before it blinked, then the head moved as the eyes gathered the semidarkness surrounding it—searching— till it stopped on one spot mechanically, as if he sensing someone was also there.

Sherlock watched his every move, until Mycroft looked his way in the next beat, and just stared at him as if he was some object of interest pinned on the wall with arms crossed; his grey features not showing recognition or alarm. Sherlock stared back at him, wondering, till he figured the man had no sense to speak first at all.  _So unlike Mycroft_  who'd be ranting incessantly of all his protocols and security locks and controls. This comparison didn't make his mood any better and made him sigh.

"Brothermine." Sherlock broke the serenity of the silence, his eyes ever watchful of the changes on his amnesiac brother. Mycroft managed to blink once, eyes boring on the younger Holmes.

"Brother?" he managed to croak in the ringing silence that followed, almost as if surprised at the notion and this made things harder for Sherlock to swallow as he tightened his crossed arms. "Oh… I see."

Then a blank expression clouded his face, something unfamiliar and frightening that left Sherlock looking down the floor, uncertain.

The old Mycroft would have raged at being attacked in the middle of the night, but this man here seemed unable to distinguish between night and day, let alone, recognize his own brother. He did see Mycroft's scans and the readings didn't do well to appease his troubled mind. Of all things to happen… to merely forget was an irony to them brothers, and now this.

But Sherlock looked up again, unwilling to give in. Mycroft was there. He had to believe it. So he pushed himself away from the wall and took steps towards the bed where the harmless patient laid idly by, waiting for the visitor to evaporate it seemed. At that respect, Mycroft was the same.

"How are you feeling?" he asked once upon him and was able to attract his older brother's attention. The older Holmes seemed to decide how he was going to respond or have any ideas of the matter at all so he shook his head quietly. Sherlock pressed his lips and nodded.

"You're not quite the chatter box I saw the other day."

That seemed to fuel something in the man's eyes as the events of his awakening juggled fresh memories.

"So you were there? I thought I remember seeing you… I don't know, everything is in a blur."

"That's alright." Sherlock paused again, "Everything will be in its proper state soon. Don't stress on it."

"I feel the same." Mycroft seemed ready to sleep again as he gave out a long sigh, "My mind is in a haze… it lacks a lot of things… but it knows how to calm." He opened his eyes and up to Sherlock. "So you are my brother? I am sorry, I'm saying it a lot, but what's your name?"

Sherlock nodded slowly as everything felt surreal. "I'm Sherlock. Seven years your junior."

"Oh?" he blinked, surprised, "I thought it was a girl's name. I thought it was weird the way they say it. I gathered I have a younger sister and a brother from the way they—parents— named Sherlock and Eurus… I thought perhaps she… and she hasn't visited. Perhaps we are not on good terms?" he sounded doubtful, even a little troubled that Sherlock was compelled to answer quickly.

"It's not the case."

"Then I hope nothing bad has happened to her?"

Sherlock stood there, struck for reply. "She's fine."

Mycroft averted his glassy eyes to the ceiling, "That is good… it's enough of me as one tragedy in the family." He smiled at the disconcerted younger brother. "On closer inspection, you couldn't be anything but my brother."

"Really?"

"I've looked myself in the mirror many times today and noticed we have the same jawline, eyes and cheekbones so I assumed…" he looked up not for confirmation of his little deduction but with apologetic eyes Sherlock was surprised to see. "… I'm sorry, I'm always like this… I notice everything." He sighed heavily.

But Sherlock was too overwhelmed—and couldn't take it—the apologies, the way he spoke—a different person as a whole— but his mind, his brilliant mind was there—as was his soul—

"You're capable of so much more." Sherlock insisted, his throat stricken.

"I see. So it does run in the family?" Mycroft nodded slowly too, expressionless. "Our parents said something about you being… a detective of some sort. That's why you didn't come. I assumed also we weren't very close." he said it in a matter of fact tone and Sherlock became worried that his mygdalae—that which governs the emotions in the brain—was also damaged. Not that Mycroft had some use of it before. Then he remembered his brother's heartfelt expression of apologies and this made him sigh inwardly. Mycroft struggled with his ribs as he tried to sit but Sherlock put a reassuring hand on his shoulder and turned towards the nearest chair.

"What makes you say so?" the younger Holmes quietly pulled the chair towards the bed and sat there with interest in his eyes forming. There was no reason to worry the patient… because it seems Mycroft could still tell what was on his mind. He was still excellent in reading people.

"Your absence this morning despite your older brother's condition." Mycroft said simply, his eyes not leaving Sherlock's who never broke away. He wanted to know more of the depths his brother had lost and retained. "It is a given. I did wonder why my siblings were never present."

The younger Holmes pressed a tight smile than turned upside down as he gazed at his older brother. He couldn't remember Eurus at all, the way he couldn't remember everything else. Was that why he was a sight to behold then? He looked so light, so unburdened… and so empty.

"You don't remember anything at all?" he asked kindlier.

"Retrograde amnesia…. Doctor said." Mycroft explained as if reading from a book, "somewhere in my cerebral cortex, my temporal lobe has been damaged, rendering my inability to access my own autobiography… but I do remember an umbrella before a loud explosion. I assumed I had a terrible accident."

"It was terrible…" Sherlock looked down Mycroft's broken arm. "I am sorry. I've been trying to follow their tracks… to wherever it leads."

"Who?"

"Your attacker."

Mycroft considered again, remembering he was talking to a brother whose supposed job was to be a detective. In the end, he nodded his head.

"Well, I'm sure you will do a great job."

Sherlock hesitated, "If I had this wouldn't have happened."

"You can't control everything. This could have happened to anyone."

"Yes, but not on my watch."

Mycroft then gave him one of his penetrating gazes, one that examines, reads and sees through another that Sherlock was sure Mycroft was just about to remember everything—but he didn't.

"Your source of guilt has no basis for me." He offered kindly, "I don't remember anything. I suggest you do it too, Sherlock. Only then can we both moved on."

Sherlock was silent for a moment, before chuckling quietly.

"Why are you the one comforting me?" he asked.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at the younger brother.

"Isn't that what I do?"

An abundance of memory came flooding Sherlock then and for a moment he was lost in his mind palace: of the memory of his older brother always there when needed, as a child when Eurus deteriorated, as a teenager when the two of them only understood each other and insulted the majority for mediocrity of brain, to adulthood with his addiction that left him a danger to himself, up to the present as a man working his own keep— _wasn't Mycroft always…_

_But then again, Sherlock always knew._

Mycroft couldn't.

And this made the night heavier as he placed a hand on his older sibling and tapped him gently.

"Yes. That's what you do, and memory or not, that's one thing you don't need to doubt about yourself."

Perhaps a glimmer of something familiar awoke inside Mycroft's eyes. Or perhaps it was the trick of the light. But the older Holmes smiled in gratitude, something Sherlock had never seen before, or perhaps because he wasn't looking. Or perhaps because he hasn't done anything in Mycroft's life time that made his brother appreciate him, he couldn't be sure. But it was there.

"That is nice. Thank you."

Sherlock prodded his tired brother to sleep and spent the rest of the night seated beside his bed, back flat on the chair, left hand covering half his face and wondering, why he didn't want to go in the first place. Mycroft would never be a stranger to him, that now much was clear. He _, Sherlock,_  would be.

So in this respect, who actually had the bigger lost? What actually was the string that disappeared?

* * *

Sherlock disappeared the whole morning the next day nor was he there when John was called by Mycroft's secretary to see him off. As what he had told the detective last night, it had been decided where Mycroft was staying for his safety and the safety of everyone around him.

John couldn't believe Sherlock was fine with everything, though in retrospect, Sherlock would really not have a chance seeing as he has no guardianship rights being a well-known security concern on his own. The consulting detective knew that of course and made no attempt whatsoever to pull anything—he knew what was best for his brother. But still, this act of not caring was already getting on his nerves.

He was already inside the moving sedan after a short goodbye to his baby girl when Anthea's phone rang. Whatever was said on the other end didn't bid good news. It took her seconds to inform John that Mycroft had disappeared in the vicinity of the hospital, clearly after being briefed of where he was going to be transferred.

 _He was just there seated perfectly well on his bed talking to his doctor when I left to check security,_  the representative from the Secret Service insisted.

John was quick to dial Sherlock's number as the car drove all the way to the hospital. That was one of the reasons why he also wanted Sherlock involved, for things to be secured. Now it was too late.

"Sherlock, do you have Mycroft?" was the first thing he said when the consulting detective answered.

 _"What's happened?"_  was the urgent respond and Sherlock sounded so alarmed John didn't have to doubt him,  _"I'm in Bart's, about to come out now—what's happened?"_

John pressed a hand on his temple. "He was just inside his room, prepared for the transport and then he began asking his men questions—that's what the man there said—"

_"What sort of questions?"_

"Uh… about where they were going and why he couldn't stay with any family member. The person clearly had no idea who he's dealing with and told Mycroft of safety and national security and all that—"

 _"Dammit."_  Sherlock's voice was harsh,  _"That's why I told you about security concerns! Those idiots! I have Wiggins and the others surveying the area too, they must've seen something. I'll get in touch—inform me if anything else happens—"_

"Where are you headed now?"

_"You know the answer to that."_

And Sherlock hung up, leaving John wondering just what was running in both the Holmes' brother's mind. He was so absorbed by his own thoughts that it took him a moment to realize that Anthea was calling him. When he did look up, a concerned secretary was looking at him.

"What?" he thought he couldn't sound more alarmed than Sherlock.

"We should not rule out abduction." She said with a strained tone. "We've been receiving threats since the explosion, Dr. Watson. That's why we were in a hurry to transfer Mr. Holmes…"

John gave the lady a hard look, before dialing Sherlock's number again and cursing under his breath. His friend wanted developments, not late news.

_"Shit…"_

* * *

**-To be Continued-**

* * *

**_A/N: Sherlock hasn't realized it yet, but soon he will!_ **

_Things couldn't get any interesting! Mycroft gone rouge!_

_Sherlock on the scent! We never should stop the chasing!_

_*screams for Season 5*_

_Apologies for lateness! I got caught up with things!_

_Will update... soon ^^''_

**Thank you for Reading!**


	4. Saw the Difference

***** **The Day My Brother** *****

_**by: WhiteGloves** _

_I so love... the Holmes brothers if I haven't put much emphasis into it_

_Thank you for reading an_ _other chapter of_

_**The Day My Brother...** _

* * *

**4: Saw the Difference**

* * *

Mycroft sat aimlessly in one of the public floors of the hospital with few other patients also sitting idly by, watching the telly in their white gowns or wheelchairs.

He sat there, motionless for a while, his unblinking eyes transfixed at the pot of plant by the wall just under the television set, pondering silently of the unusual collection of his new memories, his own realizations and the future that could be awaiting him. What was in store for him after he leaves the hospital was only too clear, the people he met the moment he woke up had plenty of ways to show him rather than explain what it was the must be done, and the air of  _danger_  never really left their actions. As if this old Mycroft Holmes was someone so important, someone so  _indispensable_  they could not let wander off the streets for predators to find.

Who was this Mycroft Holmes and what was he to the world? Why was he different to all other patients sitting here in this common room whose own handicaps does not mean a tragedy? And why, for all that has been said about losing memories and forgetting his past, why does his brain already have a collection from the moment he woke up, because for one everything he sees around him,  _he remembers._ From his harmless parent's tale of unusual childhood, his apparent secretary's undetailed exploit of his minor position in the government, his unusual acquaintance with one Doctor John Watson who was the most honest man he met among everyone surrounding him and who seemed to hesitate in details only to spare him, to his very own younger brother who remained a mystery to him much more than himself. He admits he was slightly curious by this younger brother who seemed genuinely concerned too judging by his late-night visit and gentle manner, yet Sherlock Holmes being an enigma could hardly be an answer to Mycroft's question. Sherlock has his own path that may be too different from what Mycroft had been doing and troubling his brother over the trifle of his lost memories seemed indecent: Mycroft had decided he would not be a burden to anyone but himself. After all, this old Mycroft Holmes seems reliable. It was only probable that he too could rely on himself.

Thus, begun his first step out of the grasp of the people who wished to protect him but not enlighten him. Mycroft had an unusual perception on people's intentions; he understands those people back there only wanted to secure him but none of them, none of them at all had any idea how to help him. In reality they seemed  _more puzzled_  than he could ever be shown by their awkwardness and hesitation. Again, Mycroft doesn't blame anyone save his own helplessness but his  _keen perception_  had told him only he could help himself so help he would find for after all, he also knew he was  _plenty smart_. It was a lethal combination, enough to make one survive. Enough even to find this needle of his past in a haystack.

He was ready then to take on the world no matter how ridiculous it may seem, he has places to go, to check out that might bring in some past memories of his. He already saw his file and the addresses of his most visited places didn't leave his brain as they were only few—none of this little detail left his brain the moment he saw them. All that was left was the exploration.

Explore he did and found himself in his current position in front of the television of the hospital.

_Curious._

Mycroft looked down his injured arm to his movable legs. He could have gone outside now, only that  _his legs seemed not want to cooperate._ What was it with his legs? Was it possible his work in the government was merely for office and that his legs were accustomed to sitting around that it refused to change even when its owner had purely decided on being active? Well, he does seem a bit round in the middle but not enough to call himself overweight.

 _Curious._  If he knew this was only how far his legs was going to take him, he would not have moved from his room at all. So then, he allowed his mind to explore.

As he sat there half paying attention to the television that showed threats were given by a group of terrorists to the young Prince and how maximum alert was already raised in the country, to which he felt sympathetic for the Prince was a mere toddler and what sort of idiots would dare harm a child, while also thinking of the many ways to counter said terrorist if given the chance for he realized somewhere at the back of his mind he had an account of military strategies he does not remember how he acquired—while also noticing half the patients sitting with him there were terminally ill, a child in a wheelchair with cancer, the older folks diagnosed with kidney problems and forgotten by their families it seemed by the length of time they had been in the hospital—their faces showed the homely appearance of one who had been residing in there for months. A young man standing in a corner holding on his iv-drip looking sullen, probably involved in a car accident—to the nurses nursing everyone—realizing where they came from, what they do, what kind of patients they had been tending to—to the visitors coming— _everything was there—just there to observe._

_He could see all the difference in the world._

At one point, Mycroft even had to close his eyes at how quick the information was getting engraved on his mind. He welcomes any information that comes to his brain but he could not help feeling guilty at how some of the details were too personal. Once on the day that he woke up, he insisted on telling his nurse that it was not her fault her partner left her for another man. The horror on the nurse's face upset him so much he didn't say another personal information on the next nurse that replaced her  _or anyone all_. At this very moment, more of the people around him had more stories to tell. He obligingly wanted to study them at first, wanting to see the limits of his own capacity, and then realizing quickly that there was no such thing as  _limit_ , he opted to  _stop._  By then making a vow that he would only  _look_  for necessary information of personal nature if  _needed._  What other people does with their lives was not for him to meddle. It would be distasteful and outward rude to wind up knowing people's secrets they do not wish for anyone to share.

But it was dangerous, that lone man standing in the corner with his iv-drip. His addiction will be his undoing.

Mycroft contemplated whether he should let the man know, or whether he should tell the doctor that just walked past him he needed to sleep or he will be likely to have a heart attack if he does not stop working straight for 36 hours. Or whether all of this was his business.  _Why don't people take care of themselves more?_

Then there was this boy in the wheelchair who was not moving a muscle, his head covered with a white cap, his pale complexion and dark eyes already sending Mycroft signals of his imminent demise. Two months, he concluded. Someone so young already in the brink of death. What does he remember of this life? The pain of his sickness? The loneliness of the hospital? Or simply that… he had no one behind him save his obligatory nurse?

Mycroft watched him solemnly and found himself asking the same thing.  _Was he lonely?_

Something surprising then happened as Mycroft found himself eye to eye with the boy wearing a face mask and the look the boy gave him was one of the most powerful, one of the most unforgettable experience Mycroft has ever had since his waking day— a look of a boy so solemn, so mature and so accepting of his fate— like he knew so little enough to know that his life was granted only to end as it was meant. For others it may seem like a dejected look by Mycroft knew better.

For a boy who barely reached the age of eight to not be confused of life because of his innocence, Mycroft knew he had to pay him his respect and stood up from his position. He slowly reached the boy who did not waver his eyes from him. Was it a connection of two persons sharing the same knowing and lonely eyes or was it because both needed affirmation that they were still both alive and could be seen by another existing being because others have stopped looking, Mycroft didn't bother dwelling on as he stopped in front of the boy and gently pat his head.

"You're a good child." He sighed, also slowly kneeling in front of the boy, "I'm sorry, I suppose this is not your first time having someone ogle at you from a distance? Or are you much used to people looking away when you found them staring?" The boy blinked and nodded vigorously, and Mycroft just knew he was a kid longing for attention and affection. He touched the boy's shoulder with his good hand, a smile lingering on his face, "Forgive them, they just find it hard to… understand. Others may have stopped looking, but I will never be one of them."

The boy stared at him, seemingly dazzled by his words and Mycroft suddenly found this nostalgic feeling deep within him. Somewhere in his box of broken memories, something was pulsating to be remembered. Something about a curly haired boy wanting his attention…

Just then, a shadow stopped beside Mycroft, overclouding him and the boy who quickly looked around too. There they found a man wearing a dark suit and dark glasses staring at Mycroft with tight jaws and firm lips. Mycroft stared up at him, curiously studying his appearance and frowning at the bulge on his right chest.

"Mr. Holmes." he asked said more than asked, "You have to come with me."

Mycroft slowly rose from his kneeling position, till he was the same height as the man. He weighted his options for a second, before turning to the young boy again and patting his head.

"Good bye." He said and moved after the agent who was not one of his men for Mycroft had long figured out the men from the government never brought  _firearms_ in a public vicinity especially not the hospital _._  This knowledge actually made him trust the men with his secretary more and somewhat appeased by the thought his part of the government was nothing harmful to others. This man however posed a threat which was more the reason that no scene was made as they made their way out of the crowded hospital, onto the lift.

The moment the lift shut and the two of them were alone did Mycroft stopped feigning ignorance.

"Who are you?" he asked quietly, not minding his proximity with his kidnapper as the lift cascaded on his feet, the numbers blinking lower one after another

"I'm surprised you could tell." Was the cool response that only made Mycroft more curious, "We heard you suffered losing memories, you don't act like one."

"I lost memories, not got born yesterday." Mycroft now watch the numbers of floor get lower and lower, "though for some people that would be metaphorically correct. You on the other hand don't act like you are new to this. A professional. Judging also by your preparation of arms, you never intend to leave without me hitting the ground for good."

"You don't seem surprised?"

"I've figured out enough for three days." Mycroft saw the  _G_  blink once and the door opened into the dark underground parking of the hospital. Right then, he stepped out, curious if a vehicle was waiting or some sort, then finding none, made Mycroft lower his eyes on the ground and feeling the man behind him stopping a few feet short from where he was. "I suppose too… that you came here just to finish the job?"

"We've scouted this place," the unknown man said conversationally, "clear as the wind. Your men aren't at all that efficient."

Mycroft slowly turned towards the man who already had him at gunpoint. He held his ground, his curious eyes quickly shaded with the severity of his situation. He has had many talks with private personnel, the last one being one of the service men involved in his transport not half an hour ago. He realized the man knew the situation—only with regards to security, but not at all familiar with the grounds to which his target, Mr. Holmes, has lost. So Mycroft spoke to him candidly, in a manner that would suggest he knew much more than what others care to acknowledge and obtained background that others had refused to say.

 _"How's the security?"_   _he asked the man who seemed surprised at the sudden attention. This only proved Mycroft that he was superior and not just some victim bag others were told to hold on to._

_"Very well, Mr. Holmes. We secured the route to the safe house, there is no need to be concerned."_

_"I see." He replied much quieter, "I suppose my parents would not be there. It would be too dangerous to let others know of my whereabouts?"_

_"Yes, Mr. Holmes. It has been explained to them in detail and they agreed."_

_So he was really an accountability if left alone to his own family?_

_"No visitors?"_

_"By appointment, Mr. Holmes."_

_He means a prison._

_"My brother?"_

_"He's well aware of the location, though I have not heard any instructions pertaining to the subject. He is out of reach for some time now, Mr. Holmes although he is still under surveillance."_

_Mycroft nodded slowly. Under surveillance… his detective brother must be a wildcard, Mycroft already saw that last night._

_"My sister…" he slowly began, then quickly noting the surprise frown of unfamiliarity in the man's face, hastened to change the subject, "if I had any would be here, I suppose. Not that it's safe to be with me."_

_"There is no need to worry, Mr. Holmes."_

_"Very good. But my enemies would be ready." he said it in an undertone, knowing he will be given a confirmation. Isn't it easier for people to let out information willingly when they are praised and unaware than have it asked directly? That would render them less guilty._

_"Yes, Mr. Holmes, and so are we. The terrorists that attacked your office had gone silent for a while, we've also been checking with the networks and the turbulence they are causing made us arrange this transfer."_

_"Of course, we don't want any civilians hurt." Mycroft frowned. "How are the people in the office?"_

_"We've relocated into one of our safe house as well, two casualties from the accident have been replaced as well."_

_Replaced… an abundance of life to spare it seemed… in this office he was heading._

_"I wouldn't want anything like this to happen again." He steered his eyes to his man and stared at him transfixed, "No civilians must be hurt no matter what. That is our code, you remember?"_

_"Yes, sir. Much right sir."_

_At least, he was working for protection of people and not some overlord master he had been imagining. Or was he imagining it? This man here seemed to be the wrong person to extract information from. He only knows what's on his plate. Straightforward. He only knows the tiny surface of everything. Mycroft could not point how but he knew there was so much more about the esteemed old Mycroft Holmes nobody was willing to tell him._

_"Take care of everything. I wish to see my doctor."_

_"Yes sir."_

Back to the present, Mycroft again had that sudden realization. That maybe the reason no one could tell accurately who he really was, was because  _no one actually knew._

Basing his pre-judgement from other people's view of him, they all have that similar answer and aura of some piece missing. Like the side of the moon that was never seen. A side of him that no one ever had the privilege of seeing because for one— _maybe this other Mycroft Holmes was a paradox even to himself._ The thought itself made Mycroft fall into despair. What if the real him was buried underneath all the memory he has forgotten and no one save himself knows it? Could that mean  _he was lost forever?_

"You've gotten quiet."

Mycroft's eyes lit up as he found his captor in the dark. Wasn't one of the reasons he decided to come with this stranger, aside from protecting those innocent patients, was also for this one question? No matter how dangerous it was…

"Who am I to you?" he quite demanded. If the people on his side could not clear the haze of his identity, then who better ask than his enemies?

"A dead man?" suggested the man with a smirk. Mycroft was unfazed.

"Why do you wish to kill me?"

"If you are delaying your death—"

"I only wish to know the reason why I am to be killed." Mycroft said with all honesty, his sharp eyes transfixed at his target, also, there's always ways to  _convince_ people, "After all, you have succeeded in bringing me here under the nose of my men. My own family is unaware because they were never involved to begin with, how can they be, they answer to my people.  _My government, it seemed._  As you also rightfully expect, my men are too lax… I supposed your threat against the little prince of the country had something to do with this penetrable security."

"Oh, you figured that one out."

"Hardly difficult. It was a perfect diversion."

"Well, using the prince's protection to divert attention from you—doesn't that tell you how important it is that we finish the job here quick, Mr. Holmes?"

Mycroft fell silent, eyes falling on the gun. Was this the usual event that befalls Mycroft Holmes of the past playing with guns? And does he always know what to do? Mycroft then looked down his injured hand and wondered if it was used to using weapons and the like. So was he that kind of man, working in the shadows and getting singled out by terrorists in the country? Was that how much he weighs in for the enemy of the government?

_Was he that dangerous?_

"I'm still curious," he said when he heard the man pull the hammer of the gun and knew all the answer didn't matter anymore. The boy with cancer knew he was about to die and made peace with it; his old self that nearly died because of the explosion must also be aware that his job required one foot on his graveyard. Surely this was something inevitable… and it was most probable that he had seen it come many times. He just forgot. His life was expendable for himself, he has already forgotten everything… what else was he to lose now?

He raised his eyes to the man preparing for the final kill, "of why you think you need to do this. This isn't about the money. Terrorists are often times driven by their beliefs… so what is so compelling of having to end the life of one… simple government employee to you?"

"Because you meddle enough." Came the rough response.

"Oh." Mycroft blinked as dawning comprehension hit him hard. As if the cloud of doubt that had hung over his head for the past few days were suddenly cleared out— and the warm sun of certainty cleared his aura. He looked at the man with all intensity and gratefully said, "Thank you."

"What?"

"I'm sorry," Mycroft couldn't help but smile a little and stood his ground with more pride than he ever thought he could ever feel. "I thought for a second, I was being hunted for revenge and my own wrong doings… it turns out I was merely disposing this country of trashes like you."

He saw the man's expression change abruptly into rage and knew he was indeed, a  _dead man._

 _Not that he regrets it._ And Mycroft stood firmly, eyes on the trigger, resolute and unmoved for he was a man who stood for the rights of the country and though he may have forgotten, he will die as one as well.

Two seconds silence passed before everything was about to be blown apart but then—

"Imagine losing your life because you keep meddling with people?"

Mycroft's attention was sidetracked to one of the dark alleys in the underground park. He wasn't the only one that seemed surprised at all. His gunman also looked around alertly, till a shadow of a man appeared before them, that slowly focused into one being that got Mycroft blinking with a start.

_Wasn't that…?_

"Sherlock?"

"You sound surprised." Sherlock Holmes emerged from the darkness with a gun on his own hand, pointing avidly at his brother's captor. Mycroft watched his brother slowly step out in the clearing, his dark eyes glinting and with all intent, the same aura his captor was emitting.  _All prepared and unhesitant for violent deaths._

Before Mycroft could say anything to his younger brother—three gunshots were heard—

One missed Mycroft by inches as it hit the opposite wall that cracked into tiny bits, while the other caught the unknown terrorist in the body—and he dropped dead on the ground, his blood flowing on the cement—

Mycroft didn't even have time to react as he watched his brother quickly jump to the dead man and take his possessions, from his cellphone, to his other guns, before turning to his big brother.

"He'll have his mates come here sooner, we have to go."

But Mycroft was looking at his brother in a whole new light—not as a savior—but entirely something else—

Sherlock had already turned around, was preparing to call John for this development when he heard no footsteps following him. Turning around, he saw Mycroft still standing on his ground, eyes transfixed at the dead man before him.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked in all intent, his furrowed eyebrows impatient, "We have to get out of here, come on, Mycroft."

And Mycroft Holmes looked up at his younger brother, his expression a mixture of disbelief and pure severity.

"Why should I trust you and don't tell me because you're my brother." Mycroft could not shake the image of his younger brother pulling a gun, like it was something he does on daily basis, like it was part of his daily life. Hadn't he convinced himself the protector of this country? So what was his brother? And why was he under surveillance for christsake? So why should he trust him?

"Mycroft, you're shocked." Sherlock began quietly, seeing his brother watching the dead body and realizing where this was coming from, "But we don't have time, we really have to go. Whether you trust me or not." He added the last bit as quick as he could and Mycroft just watched him, entirely unconvinced.

"Sherlock Holmes, be quick in explaining." The older Holmes went on in the silence that followed as he made plain the difference,  _"are we by nature… enemies?"_

* * *

**-To be Continued-**

* * *

**_A/N: Updating late again! But worth the read I hope^^_ **

_Mark Gatiss inviting us in the sooo MYCROFTish way I nearly had a heart attack!_

_Did you all saw his video? Why are they teasing us so much! :D_

_I love this fandom! But I want season 5! *cries in a corner*_

**Thank you for Reading!**


	5. Met the Other

***** **The Day My Brother** *****

_**by: WhiteGloves** _

_We will be hitting the awaited climax soon!_

_Thank you all for reading!_

_**The Day My Brother...** _

* * *

**5: Met the Other**

* * *

Sherlock would never kill unless it was necessary. He knew the importance of life no matter how many times he disregards it. A paradox maybe, but he was never one to take on the lives of people for no apparent reason, and he was not one to put his life in any more danger as a close friend once gave up her life just to protect it.

So he knows the importance of life. But he also knew how willing he was to take one especially when it so threatens the life of someone he deeply cares about. Even if it doesn't show.

When the armed man had his brother at gunpoint, the hesitation to kill the gunman never came to mind. All that mattered was to keep Mycroft out of harm's way; he knew appearing before them was a risk—but he would take it—have the gunman point the weapon to himself and end it. But it didn't go as he had expected for the armed man was a professional who would rather finish his task and be killed than get delayed. He pulled the gun on Mycroft but not seconds before Sherlock did. The gunman missed.

Mycroft was saved. But this was the complicated older brother Sherlock had come to know upon growing up; the same man who would engage him in cognitive battles that would drive him hours and hours just to figure out. The same man who had asked a very strange question out of the blue that would likely to drive him mad to answer—

_"Are we enemies?"_

Sherlock hesitated, his blank features unable to convey the surprise he was feeling. Gunned man between them, pool of blood ceaselessly streaming on the ground and Mycroft was questioning him, questioning his loyalty above all else that all Sherlock could do was to stare at him, unable to find words to express the tinge of sadness that had taken hold as he confirmed how his brother had forgotten.

"It's neither here nor there." He whispered finally.

"I can see that." Mycroft agreed without blinking, "But if you're neither of the two then you're not on my side either."

"I just killed a man—!"

"For whose gain I wonder?"

Sherlock was spared the retort when headlights started blinking behind him. The detective hastened to look back, before turning to his brother who was looking past him into the car parked across them. The lights blinked again with a man behind the wheels apparently calling their attention.

"I told you none of this is relevant at the moment," Sherlock looked at his watch before giving his brother a full look, "We have to get out of here. Now." When Mycroft didn't move a muscle, Sherlock gritted his teeth and shook his head in desperation and added— "Don't make me point a gun at you, Mycroft. We have to get out of here."

Mycroft's eyes lingered down the bloody corpse in front of him and sighed.

"You might as well do so." But he moved and Sherlock quickly ushered him to the back of the car where he also joined him. The engine of the car came to life.

"What was that for, taking your time?" came Bill Wiggin's voice from the driver's seat, frowning from the rearview mirror at Sherlock as he drove the car out of the parking space. "Trying to decide how the bloke died?"

"Just drive."

The dark parking lot screeched with his tires till they were out of the exit, allowed by men in parking uniforms to drive away, onto the main road of London.

Minutes after, only silence remained in the car. Wiggins would look every now and then at the brothers as he drove, turning left at each point till they were crossing the bridge with the tall Big Ben on the view.

Sherlock would shift a look at his older brother, only to find him looking straight ahead and unmoved. There was that familiar curving of lips on his part, and the casual curt eyebrows that made him more and more like Mycroft on Sherlock's view but his silence was much compelling. That was how Sherlock knew his brother was casually analyzing everything and when he was like that it was better to clarify events that transpired before he makes his conclusion sound.

Mycroft with memory or not, it could not be denied that he was still the master of observations that for a second Sherlock regretted threatening him with the gun just to convince him to come.

"You're not honestly thinking I'm your enemy?" he started in a deep voice.

Mycroft gave him a side glance. "Aren't you?"

"I just helped you escape them." Sherlock insisted, feeling the growing annoyance in the pit of his stomach crawl up his chest, "Why do you mistrust me?"

"This is not escape, this is abduction." Mycroft injected acidly that made Wiggins look at Sherlock in the mirror again to see him shake his head. "If you had wanted to help me, you would have brought me back to the Secret Service by now. I observed you had not the intention from the beginning. Hence the mistrust."

"Mycroft—"

"I do not know what you wish to gain by doing this," Mycroft stared straight ahead, "but if you're looking for sympathy as my kin, you've already missed the chance, I do not and will not condone misdoings even if you are my brother." He shot Sherlock a look so heavy and firm that rendered the younger Holmes speechless. "Abduction, fake officers, murder,  _drugs._ " He nodded towards Wiggins who shot them a side glance, unsurprised at the deduction having been acquainted with Sherlock for too long as Mycroft continued, "You think I haven't noticed? You planned this escape, from the beginning—you knew something like this will happen and you were waiting to seize the chance to take me: you in the dark with a gun, your friend lying in wait in his car to take us away, your men wearing clothes of parking officers when in fact they were mere hired men paid to do your bidding. You went to great lengths to take me from the Secret Service, Sherlock… I have every reason to doubt your nature. And if by chance this is really your world in the dark then I shall reject it."

"The murder you accuse of me is me trying to save you!" Sherlock was angry now.

"Or you're  _saving yourself?"_  Mycroft retorted back, the hardness on his face unconcealable, "Some use I must be to you that regardless of my safety you are willing to follow what you selfishly thought to be correct. I do not doubt how much faith you have in your brother… it seems I was one to bend on your will—but not anymore.  _I see much more of everything and you are just at the opposite side._ Now hand me over to the Secret Service before my poor judgment of you becomes unreconcilable."

"You'd rather trust them with your life?"

"Because they do what I believe is right."

Silence fell in the moving car. Even Wiggins felt the tension in the back seat as he kept his eyes transfixed in the traffic ahead. Then silently, Sherlock reached for his phone and dialed a number. As he waited for someone to pick up, he looked Wiggins straight in the eye and said—

"Bring us back."

Not another word was spoken as the car turned and drove towards the location Sherlock had given Mycroft's secretary. Lesser contact was made between the brothers who sat at opposite end of the backseat like strangers in the Underground without much to share. They stayed like this for another five minutes until the car began slowing down as it neared the bridge till it made a full stop. Sherlock was still surveying the two black cars parked opposite them when his brother opened the car door and slid out.

"He's pissed." Wiggins commented as Sherlock did the same but with a glare at his chemist.

People where flocking the streets from tourists and Londoners around when he came out of the car; Mycroft was already walking towards Anthea and three other black suited men standing around her amidst the heap of people. He didn't even look back.

"Mycroft," Sherlock called, walking after his brother.

Mycroft stopped halfway with people avoiding bumping to him, Sherlock did the same and watched as his older brother slowly turned back, his face resolute. This made Sherlock square his jaw as they stood there on opposite sides. There was no turning back.

"You're being unfair." Sherlock finished without much vigor.

"Your sudden interest in my situation aroused my suspicion." Mycroft was firm, "You lack it on my first few days… I had to ask myself why you would show yourself now."

" _Don't be too damn calculating!"_

Mycroft gave him another long, hard look. "I had to be. No one else was going to do it for me, Sherlock. Not even you. Have you… found yourself in a place where it felt like anyone could be your enemy because you feel it in your surrounding? Eyes always watching, people always whispering… and to feel none of them was telling the truth or at least, because nobody  _knew what the truth._ "

Sherlock gaped, struck at how his brother was being so honest.

"You don't know how it felt, Sherlock, you're not in my position." Mycroft added, " _I could see everything yet the truth still eluded me._ I had to wonder everyday if the threat I felt was coming… and to see where it would come from, I was always  _ready._  To rely on my intuition alone, that appeased me… and this intuition tells me you're more dangerous than you had already shown. I know so little, but one thing I'm sure of— _I cannot trust you."_

Sherlock merely stared back at him, his words cutting through him as only then did John's voice suddenly echoed in Sherlock's mind palace.

 _Go to your brother! He needs you!_  Whose fault was it that this man here could not bear to trust anyone saved those people who were protecting him since the explosion? Whose fault was it that he was unrecognizable? Sherlock who had been ridden with guilt, unable to face his brother, now seeing the consequence of his absence.

"I'm sorry…" the younger Holmes found himself saying, his voice faltering.

The older Holmes gave him a narrowed look.

"I'm sure I should have thanked you for saving me then." Mycroft said quietly, "I understand we were on a complicated situation… and subtraction of the enemy is a must for life preservation. But Sherlock you cannot deny how our ground is different, you and me."

Sherlock was silent and just stared at his older brother for a while.  _Who created the stranger…_

_Meet your brother!_

"Shut up," Sherlock shook John's voice away that earned him another critical look from his eldest. "I mean… I understand. I'm sorry."

Mycroft's eyes flickered. "I am only just beginning to know myself. I cannot be impressionable."

"You never were."

"I have my doubts. Especially when it concerns you."

Sherlock stood rooted on the spot, ready to see where it was heading.

"So what do you want me to do?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows in such a manner that would have Sherlock believe his brother was back. He weighed his gaze at the younger Holmes, and while he did look like he was upon a decision, Sherlock knew his brother was already looking at all the possible casualties their tie could cost. Judging at how he was assessing his value, it would seem Mycroft has realized his potential for good. Sherlock had long saw it but neglected to acknowledged it for even his brother was abhorred upon its mention. That despite his inclination to secrecy and gray morals, it was a fact that Mycroft Holmes saves people.

Such discussion was a definitive waste of time, Mycroft would say, and that instead of praises one should find a hobby rather than describing what he knew he was already doing, not out of concern,  _but because he can._

For him to believe in such moral when his brother was this destructible and broken character enough to burden him and question his new-found self-dignity. Sherlock long knew he was a burden to his older brother, but he would have it retained for he was indeed a selfish person. This reflection was always apparent to other people in the government who have had thought Mycroft Holmes unfortunate being connected to an atrocity such as Sherlock Holmes. So to ask Mycroft what he wants to happen when he has forgotten the only connection that kept him beside Sherlock while aware of Sherlock's ill-behaved past, the consulting detective knew he was about to be cut-off. Severed and be told to go away.

And all because he did not come to Mycroft's side promptly as what any proper brother would do.

Mycroft had made a decision, it was clear on his eyes. Sherlock was preparing to ever antagonize him as he knew Mycroft's choice was to send him away— _Mycroft always sends him away but he never listened._ Today was not much different.  _He won't listen._

"I want you to come with me." Mycroft said finally.

"No—" Sherlock was ready to answer when Mycroft's words sank to him. "What?"

The older Holmes shook his head and took a step forward his younger brother.

"If you sincerely want to be forgiven then come with me. Despite this misgiving, you are still the only one who can accompany me. I want to meet someone."

Sherlock frowned. "Who?"

* * *

 _"He wants to meet Eurus?"_  John injected loudly on the mobile phone amidst the cries of Rosie on his arms as Sherlock called him in 221B while the consulting detective oscillated outside the terminal where he was brought by Mycroft's secretary and his men once the older Holmes requested it. The helicopter on the background was still unmoving as they were waiting for the older Holmes who had gone to have his wounds checked.

"Yes."

_"Why?"_

"He figured," Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "there's no better way to understand himself… than understand his own siblings."

_"Does he still think you're his enemy?"_

"I believe so."

_"He got there fast, didn't he? Because you tried planning something against him. You thought just because he had amnesia he would not notice?"_

"I was saving him. He was being an idiot thinking it too far."

_"Yeah, well, Mycroft's in a delicate place right now. That's why I kept telling you to go visit him, get him to be comfortable with you. Not like some maniac appearing in the middle of the night once in a while like some omen of death."_

"He thinks understanding Eurus is vital, I couldn't stop him."

_"Why would you want to stop him?"_

Sherlock paused, his own hesitation apparent he knew even John understood.

_"Sherlock?"_

"His honesty is unnerving."

_"I know, I've seen him since day one—_ _for a man who had gone through a trauma of forgetting his past, his face never had that blank look you'd expect—his eyes were always full of intensity. Whenever Mycroft engages eye contact with anyone, he would give them a full look in the eye so complete and focused anyone would find it difficult to continue looking. His eyes would always look at each person as if he was examining them thoroughly. He would study me with his grey orbs like glass penetrating through one's soul."_

"He does have that going for him."

_"Don't act like you know—you ignored him."_

"I didn't… I was hunting his enemies."

_"Did you find them?"_

"If I had you'd be hearing about it from the news. I have my leads… had more after gunning down the man who tried to kill him in the hospital. It's a serious threat, I had Lestrade look after it for me. A person who can use my network against me just to get on to my brother, and who uses a terrorist's name to create diversions—is someone who's potent, John. I can't leave Mycroft alone. They'll be coming after him soon."

_"If you had realized that since the first day—"_

"The threat needed to be found, it was taking all my time." Sherlock gritted his teeth.

_"So you got Wiggins as your sidekick? And didn't tell me?"_

Sherlock ignored him, "But it's true, I've noticed Mycroft's more as you said, expressive. He's very honest… and this honesty—"

_"Scares you?"_

Sherlock took a moment to respond and when he did, he saw Mycroft and his secretary emerged from inside the building, his brother wearing a thick black over coat with his right arm still on a support around his neck.

"He'd usually mask everything… sarcasm, ridiculous top security information… but now…"

 _"He's forgotten all the reason why he needs to mask everything, Sherlock."_ John said as Rosie's cries subsided, apparently Mrs. Hudson came and took her judging from John's uneven tone and breathing.  _"He's forgotten why he was such a cock. It's because of his secrets. He has no inkling of them anymore, in fact he's uncovering them one by one. Just as expected from Mycroft Holmes. Never cease to surprise."_ He heard Sherlock heave such a heavy sigh. _"You don't like the idea?"_

"He's uncovering them, John," he said with pursed lips, to find Mycroft looking his way quietly. "He's unearthing the very nature of his lies and deceptions… to what end? Do you think he can accept what he would find? Because the last time we had a misunderstanding, John, he had come to believe fully that he was—to say the least,  _with a conscience._ His honesty and conscience would not work well with the gravity of what he would find, John."

 _"Because Eurus will burst his bubble…"_  John muttered slowly.

Mycroft began walking towards him just as the chopper began to stir.

"I think…" Sherlock said finally, watching his brother come closer, making his eyebrows furrow with a weight of concern, "I don't know what to do."

 _"Just be there for him."_  John sighed quietly,  _"Mycroft needs to know. I'm sure he'll figure the rest out. Trust him."_

"Who's that?" Mycroft asked just as Sherlock hung up his phone.

"John." Sherlock looked away on to the chopper picking up the wind. "I still don't think it's a good idea."

"Meeting her?" Mycroft looked over the transport too, "Well now, you refused to tell me what you know, even advised my own secretary not to give me the files… don't blame me for not sharing the same sentiments."

"I told you she's sick." Sherlock looked him in the eye, his voice rising at the noise that was beginning to hinder their conversation. "She's not well."

"And I told you much secrecy only arouses my curiosity further and with or without you I shall go to her. I plan to return in the government soon, I shall need to known my own story so if she could not come during my deathbed, then I shall go to her."

"Mycroft, she's—"

But Mycroft shook his head and said at the top of his voice, "With this noise I could barely here you. I'll find out on my own. But a helicopter really. Where is she, at the top of a tower? Come on." Mycroft forced himself against the picking wind, Sherlock watching his back and then following suit.

* * *

To Sherrinford it was and unlike his many visits, it was one of those that Sherlock did not look forward to. Even upon arrival, the consulting detective observed the apprehension that covered his older brother's features as he saw the fortress. Cold feet, Sherlock deduced as they landed and casually placed a hand under Mycroft's left elbow to lead him. Mycroft shot him a surprised look and Sherlock eased him by nodding slowly.

They began to walk with the present governor welcoming them quietly. Sherlock had made sure the governor was aware of the situation and not have him babble anything to his brother.

As they walked side by side, Sherlock took the position of a guide.

"Sherrinford is a special prison… for those that cannot be contained in a simple cell, Mycroft. It is made for the sole purpose of keeping our  _uncontainable."_

"Uncontainable?" Mycroft detected something amiss and he was right to think so.

"A place for those who pose a threat for both themselves and other people." Sherlock sensed his older brother's uneasiness as he understood the words that have just been said.

"Are you telling me our sister…?"

"Yes." Sherlock glanced at him somberly, "I told you our sister is sick… and she is beyond anyone's help."

The look on Mycroft's face hardened as deeper understanding came to him. Sherlock could just remember as if it was yesterday, when he and John devised a plan to get his older brother talking about their inexistent sister. He had been so angry at Mycroft then for keeping a secret, so angry that he had to scare Mycroft and put him on wits end by having a most hated clown chase him in his own house. But even then, even if it was the case he had not the heart to accuse Mycroft of anything for it was something he did not yet understand and when Mycroft did something there was always a reason for it.

Turned out his sister, as he had explained to Mycroft just now, was a special case.

He just wished Mycroft wouldn't start asking the right questions as he did.

They entered a few more wings and entrances, till Sherlock was on that familiar floor he would still visit every now and then. The governor himself was also beside them, making sure that no hurdle would stop the group as the head of Sherrinford himself was around. Soon they were outside her door that slid open upon clearance, and then they were on her isolated room, her glass wall showing a long, black haired lady in white gown sitting on the only chair in the room, immobile and lifeless.

Sherlock had visited her many times but he was still curious of her sister's being even now. Mycroft however, stood struck by the door as only the brothers were allowed entrance for private conversation.

"This is her…?" Mycroft asked sounding afraid and Sherlock didn't blame him. Memory or not, the old Mycroft always had reservations when it came to their sister. Only now did Sherlock realized how Mycroft must've felt the guilt of being the one to keep her in such a lonely place. But then… Mycroft himself, even with the freedom to go outside, had always been shackled in this place for two decades. Sherlock understood Mycroft. He wondered if Mycroft would understand himself now.

"Eurus," Sherlock stared at her figure transfixed. "Our only sister."

"Is she that dangerous to be kept in such a secluded facility?" Mycroft stepped towards the glasses slowly, his eyes unblinking, "Is she such a threat that they deemed her unfreeable for a long time?"

Sherlock did not doubt for one second his brother could tell how long she had been there. All he had to do was  _look._  It made him uncomfortable.

"Yes."

"Did she hurt anyone?"

Sherlock bit his lips and nodded. "Yes."

Mycroft looked back at him, the fear in his eyes shining, " _Killed?"_

Sherlock did not steer away from his eyes. "Yes."

Mycroft's mouth fell open as he stared back at what seemed to be his defenseless sister. For a moment he was just silent, watching her, his good hand trying to reach out on to the glass. Sherlock stood behind him without saying another word. Because surely, he knew his brother would realize.

And he did.

Mycroft then turned to him, his pupils dilated and dark.

"Did I do this? Did I lock her here? That governor seems to know me well…"

Sherlock Holmes firmly squared his jaw and answered.  _"No."_ And he would answer the same thing even if he didn't notice how pale and panicky his older brother had gotten.

Sherlock approached Mycroft and was about to put a reassuring hand on his shoulder when something unexpected happened:  _all lights went out._

The whole of Sherrinford was plunged into complete darkness.

* * *

**-To be Continued-**

* * *

**_A/N: It all started with an idea..._ **

_Season 4 never ceases to amaze me. I hope 2020 is a good year for all of us :)_

_Two chapters at most :D :D Brace yourself!_

_I wish for more Sherlock!_

**Thank you for Reading!**


	6. Greeted His Darkness

***** **The Day My Brother** *****

_**by: WhiteGloves** _

Thank you, everyone, for being with me :)

And here we are for another turn of the tide!

Thanks for reading

_**The Day My Brother...** _

* * *

**6: Greeted his Darkness**

* * *

_He made contact. We can plan. We can follow._

_It seems he still trusts him. All will be in motion._

_And then we can get our hands on the man who began this all._

_He'll answer to us, for everything he's done._

* * *

 

Sherlock quickly took hold of Mycroft's good wrist on the spot where he remembered it to be before the lights flickered out and tugged him close, not wanting to be separated in the dark.

"What's going on?" Mycroft said breathlessly as people's muffled voices began rising from outside the walled room. Suspicious silence lingered for a moment as the two brothers shoulder to shoulder stood immobilized on each other's side, sensing all other movements or sound around them. Sherlock could feel his brother tensing beside him, "Sherlock…"

"Shhh…" Sherlock warned him not to say another word as he rummaged inside his pockets with his free hand and took out his phone. He turned his mobile's torch next, lighting half the sphere they were in which Sherlock mechanically turned to the glasses where their sister was locked. It shone on the white figure of Eurus still seated inside, unbothered and completely unresponsive to whatever was happening to her surroundings. Sherlock then pointed the torch on the gray walls till it reached their closed door. The voices outside were like echoes of pure alarm but nothing else moved in the darkness. And Sherlock, making up his mind, pulled on his older brother's wrists again, leading him towards the doorway, his torchlight on the door's locking device that showed no sign of functioning.

"I suspect this isn't something that typically happens here?" Mycroft's soft voice floated in the blackness, the steadiness of his voice amusing Sherlock more than he expected.

"No, not really." He admitted, turning the mobile's screen on his face, "And yep, we don't have a signal."

"Why do you suppose this is happening?"

"Number of reasons," Sherlock replied his brows knitted now as he turned the torch towards the door's device again, "…technicalities, human error… under attack." He pointedly looked at his brother with meaning in his magnified dark eyes which Mycroft did not miss.

"What?" Mycroft blinked in surprise, "You're not saying this is a planned attack…?"

"I'm saying it." Sherlock muttered with a hard expression, "We have to be careful if it is indeed—"

"But that's impossible!"

"Probable, it's already happening." The detective snapped in concentration.

"But from what I've read on files, Sherrinford is a stronghold!" Mycroft hissed incredulously, "It can't have been compromised!"

The look Sherlock gave him was enough to silence the confused older brother.

"It had been before." Sherlock said darkly, "It can be now." He turned back on his phone, "This isn't the first time this has happened… if you'd only remember." Sherlock felt his brother's eyes bore on him and managed to glance back, his torchlight half illuminating his features. He found Mycroft giving him a hard look as he pieced the meaning of the words which he was good at that Sherlock just knew his brother was going to ask the right question again.

"Who's behind it?" his tone was of a man dreading the answer.

"It was all our fault." Sherlock said dismissively, "We fell for her trap; my mistake was to underestimate her. Yours was to keep her a secret for a long time. We all made mistakes." He bowed his head silently.

"Secret?"

Sherlock turned to the doorway next, "A story for another time, brother."

And at that precise moment, the whole Sherrinford burst with blinking red lights and the earsplitting sound of alarm that was heard in the whole island—then amidst all the confusion, an ear shattering and unending gunshots rained the air, amplified by the  _resident patients_ who all screamed and hollered at the top of their lungs. Mycroft stood rigid beside the detective who at the next moment, had slammed his closed fists holding his phone on the door's buttons making the mechanical sliding door to open with a snapping sound—

"Get out!" Sherlock shouted as he pulled Mycroft swiftly, urging him to move as they ducked their way out of the door with heads bowed, the rain of gunshots still filling the air. Mycroft followed Sherlock who kept a firm hold on his wrist while the older Holmes supported his still broken one. Sherlock seemed to have memorized every corner of the building as he led on, and Mycroft believed the man was telling the truth when he said this was not the first time the island was attacked for he seemed ready. His prowess in stealth and obvious command of himself as he showed no hesitation was dominating his being as he turned on corners and doorways like the map was at the back of his hand—

The cries of madness from every corner of the room reigned terror in Mycroft's ear as cries and laughs and screams split their eardrums and blocked all other sounds. Blinking red lights distracted them, shadows of people running around keeping them on their guard that once they had to stop on a near wall on a junction as steps of men were heard. Then the two moved in synchrony, Mycroft minding himself not to trip, and the two went as far away as possible from the maddening sounds of gunfire and screams.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft breathed behind the younger Holmes as they sharply turned to another sliding door, the detective quickly jabbing his hand on the door's button to have it closed. It was then that Sherlock let go of Mycroft to pull something from his chest pocket—revealing a gun which he hastily pointed towards the corner of the room where he shot a camera without a second's hesitation.

The gunshot sound being so close made Mycroft freeze. Sherlock saw him stiffen for the lights were steady in the area. He would have explained that they have reached a lower level but the look on his brother's face told him it mattered not.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock began softly as Mycroft watched him with apprehension, his eyes still lingering on his brother's gun. Sherlock stood still, eyes on him till Mycroft caught his eyes and both saw the reflection on each: one was full of uncertainty, even distrust while the other was fully determined to see the end of the day.

"You don't have to worry." Sherlock broke the silence but didn't move from his position, his voice low and full of assurance, "They won't catch us… this place is safe, for now."

"Who do you think those people are?" Mycroft asked with forced calm as the sound of alarm could still be heard from faraway. "Why do you think they infiltrated this place?"

"I told you don't worry."

"I'm not worried for myself…" the older Holmes honestly replied despite his initial uneasiness.

"Eurus?" Sherlock saw the man's eyes went past him towards the place where they just came from. "Don't worry, she's a patient, they won't harm her."

"How can you be sure? And what of the people who came here with us? My secretary?" there was doubt in his tone. Sherlock gave him a sudden critical look seeing the distress on his brother's ashen face.

"Stop worrying of other people, all right?"

"I would not have people die because of me." Mycroft injected firmly, his lips thin and eyebrows contorted. "And if it is so, the least I could do is worry for their safety." Silence was given by the detective but Mycroft's skeptical words next forced him to look up quickly. "Am I the kind of person who sacrifices others to save my life?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows testily.

Sherlock couldn't help pausing, but not because he was not certain of what to say. It was because Mycroft had no idea how he, despite his amnesia, was becoming closer and closer to the Mycroft he knew.

"No." Sherlock muttered when he noted the increase of line on his older brother's face, the same expression his old brother would give him when he was  _himself,_ the brother whom Sherlock realized—he sorely missed, "You're the kind of person who weighs options carefully… you were never one to decide on taking lives or abandon one if you can help it; you couldn't. You feel you're too  _responsible."_

_And so much more…_

Mycroft's tensed face relaxed. "Then good… at least I'm certain of one thing for now. No matter how this ends I don't think… it's that bad." The sad smile on his face affected Sherlock more than he cared to admit and for some reason it had an aching grip on his heart. Was that really enough knowledge?

And then before he could stop himself, the words just kept tumbling one after another, the vexation of trying to keep up the charade that everything was all right overwhelming him—

" _You hate people, you hate making contacts_ ,  _you hate everybody_ but you work for the government to save them—in the shadows you work to save the lives of the millions of our people you couldn't even bother to meet because you know they would never understand you—us!  _And you pardon them by believing they know not the better!_ " His eyes were beginning to sting but it didn't matter, something heavy he was not even aware of was already revolting to be freed, "You always said we were different than everyone else but you try so hard to understand them and for whose sake? _Theirs_! You lack the heart to care but that never stopped you  _helping…_  you claim to have no heart… but why be so devoted over me! _? Over Eurus!?_ And why blame yourself over our past you couldn't control? Why take the burden of the adults alone? Your whole life you've given it up to save Eurus and me not caring to leave something for yourself to what end—? It left you broken... and you think a simple word as  _responsible_  is enough?" Sherlock paused, breathing hard as he gripped the gun on his hand tight, his lips dried at the sudden outburst, his eyes shining and transfixed at the lone man who stood with wide eyes before him. If Mycroft wants to really know who he is then pray…  _listen._

There were more of whence it came from, the detective thought dully as the outburst exhausted him. It was not new to him that Mycroft was everything he never acknowledged but that was Sherlock being self-centered. Yet he knew, since the day Eurus came out, Sherlock knew there was much more to his hopeless big brother.

There was something in him that shone out the day Sherrinford was ruled by Eurus.  _Selfless._  He wanted to shout it to his brother but the way Mycroft was acting now, it seemed unnecessary to even mention it.  _It was his nature. Pure and simple._

When Sherlock looked up, Mycroft's eyes were on him, as fixated and intent as a surgeon in an operating room. Sherlock grunted then, realizing his frustrations got the better of him and heaved a deep sigh. He blinked several times before wiping a free hand on his cheeks, his voice becoming steady as he cleared it.

"You're more than who you think you are." He repeated the same sentiments back from the hospital as both the Holmes brothers stood in silence, till the older Holmes broke it.

"I… suspect… there's also more to you than meets the eye?" his smile caught the detective unaware, "I thought we never shared this kind of… relationship. I thought perhaps you never knew better."

"Oh, I do." Sherlock cleared his throat as an awkward silent fell between them, and then the Holmes brothers returned to the present where the distant wailing was still heard. Without warning, running footsteps got closer and closer outside the door and Sherlock turned to steer Mycroft to another doorway concealed in the wall. They strode in all haste, their feet taking them lower and lower with each stairs and steps echoing amidst the alarms around.

They reached the bottom room which made Sherlock scan the room around, his guard raised and his gun ready. Mycroft followed the gun with his eyes, the distinct disapproval on his brows returning.

"These people knowing and attacking us here in Sherrinford—" he began behind his younger brother.

"Why they did it at this precise moment, at this precise day?" Sherlock shook his head darkly, "Coincidence is our enemy from the beginning Mycroft, I hope your illness has not affected your judgment." When Mycroft did not give any sign of quick retort like the old Mycroft would have done, Sherlock pursed his lips and added, "There's too much at work in the dark to say this was all unconnected. This was no coincidence. This was by design."

"You mean they came for me. My own darkness?" Mycroft was hardly concealing his flat tone, "That they must be in league with the man who tried to kill me in the hospital?"

Sherlock stared at him, his silence opening more horrifying meaning Mycroft did not miss.

"You mean… there are more?"

Sherlock saw panic lit in his brother's eyes once again which made him hesitate to say what was already in his mind. But there was almost no way to shield his brother from any kind of danger without liberating him the reason, he decided. He knew his old lost brother would have agreed, he could still hear the man speaking deep in his mind palace, the real Mycroft urging him to do that was  _must_  and not to fall prey on  _softness and sentiments._

"It could be them. Or it could be in league with the man who tried to kill you with the bomb. Or the group that tried to send you poisoned newspapers in Diogenes. Or the group that had you cornered in Manchester, or the one that nearly had you dead on one of your air trips or the one that almost planned to shower you with acids…" at his every revelation, he saw his older brother's eyes widened each second till there was nothing left but complete perplexity and astonishment. If it was a question of searching for his real self in the darkness, Sherlock would gladly give a hand even if its in the most unconventional manner.

_It's a must…_

"So many attempts…" the older Holmes breathed, his pale complexion almost making Sherlock regret everything but the Mycroft in his mind told him to steel his mind and see everything through, "and all because I am a member of the government's high office?"

Sherlock couldn't help the small smile that escaped his lips at the irony of his words which earned an accusing frown from his older.

"You laugh at my suffering, Sherlock?"

"On the contrary, Mycroft… I'm always here to suffer with you. You should know more than anyone… I'm always on your side and you are on  _mine_ even when we're at odds, brother. Even if you have forgotten, you have to believe that."

"I would believe you, if not for that gun." Mycroft countered, "Are you going to kill anyone with that again?"

"This is self defense, Mycroft."

"But it's your hands. People die on your hands, Sherlock…" Mycroft held Sherlock's gaze, his grey eyes determined to know the answer which only made the detective raise the gun to his eye level, his features turning grave. He knew from before of Mycroft's distaste of taking lives but he was not averse to ending some when necessary. It still surprises him to know his older brother had awaken his concern to the point of inconvenience.

_Dear, sensitive… innocent Mycroft… why was he so hell bent on life and death? Did his awakening at the hospital revealed something?_

Sherlock never knew Mycroft to be such. He grew up knowing his older brother had grasped both good and the bad and inclining on the righteous. But never  _innocent_. Sherlock realized the depths of the accident he brought upon his brother, and the pain the man must be going through as he painstakingly goes through the phases the old Mycroft Holmes had successfully skipped because well— _he was Mycroft Holmes._

To see him layout the detail of something obvious was a proof of Mycroft regaining his heart. He lost himself but gained his heart. Sherlock gritted his teeth because he knew he was the only one with the responsibility to shatter it. He never intended to harm him, but to protect his brother means getting him involved so Sherlock's answer was the honest truth as he stared at him with the question hanging in the air.

_Are you going to kill again?_

"If it's necessary, Mycroft… If it's to protect you and everyone I care about. I don't care how many times."

Color rose in Mycroft's cheek as he and Sherlock eyed each other and that was when Sherlock knew—as if following his older brother's train of thoughts like it was some electric line that sparked at every turn— that Mycroft had realized the commitment of his younger brother who all those years had secretly and effectively eliminated all threats surrounding his brother for how else was he to note the number of times Mycroft's life had been in danger? How was he to know about the poison, and the newspaper and the plane? And how did all of them get conquered? The answer seemed to lie on the man standing in front of Mycroft holding the gun.

But just as Sherlock thought his brother could not surprise him any more than he did when he asked if they were  _enemies_  in the hospital, Mycroft, with eyes kindling a shower of guilt, opened his mouth one more time to say the unexpected—

_"Do I make you do that, Sherlock? Do I make you kill? Was it me who also made Eurus kill?"_

It was Sherlock's turn to be astonished. There was no denying the concern that filled Mycroft's eyes as he said it, as if the realization had pierced something deep within him that shook him to the core. Sherlock was speechless, unable to fathom the guilt now enveloping his older brother's features who waited for his answer like a sheep waiting for execution.

Unable to comprehend how this brother of his was able to conclude it was his responsibility when the action was done by Sherlock himself left the detective staring. Was this what Mycroft had always been thinking deep within him— only made visible by his vulnerable  _amnesiac side?_  That deep within him everything his younger brother does, be it for any reason, always reflects back to Mycroft's too broad shoulders—like the world as his responsibility wasn't enough? Was this why Mycroft had always been tolerant of him? He had thought Mycroft always forgave him because he was useful in the government. And sometimes he just doesn't understand why he was still forgiven despite all the chaos he made but never bothered to ask. From the beginning he grew up with his older brother always taking care of everything, but for Mycroft to not even allow him to be responsible for his quirks, his faults, his addiction—for his whole being—

_Because nothing is ever your fault,_ whispered the light Mycroft's voice in his mind palace.  _You're my younger brother._ Sherlock gritted his teeth and replied to the ghost in his head:  _You never told me that._  Mycroft only smiled in a condescending manner:  _Your fault for being slow._

Sherlock closed his lips and stared at his only brother with new-found affection visible in his eyes. Mycroft was much more confused but he had this grip hold on himself that the younger Holmes couldn't help admiring.

"No, Mycroft." Sherlock said finally, ever so gently, "Nothing's your fault… Not me, not Eurus... Knowing everything doesn't make you responsible _."_  He had the sudden urge to reach the man just to touch his shoulder in a reassuring manner but he didn't.

And Mycroft was not easily dissuaded.

"Your conclusion doesn't justify what we have here: it was me who kept her here for god knows what reason, it was me who had you kill and who knows made you do other biddings—!" Mycroft's voice grew strong and despite the anger, it was obvious he was breaking as his eyes flickered and threatened to water, his conviction that he was on the good side slowly fading, "Tell me I didn't order you to do anything you didn't like! Tell me I didn't use you for this—this government as an instrument— _tell me!"_ self-reproach was on Mycroft's tone that filled the closed room they were in.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said weakly, his own resolution to see everything through already shattering, wishing John was nearby to explain to him what was happening, "You don't get to blame yourself for every single thing that happened to our family—"

_"Our family?"_  Mycroft's voice shook, the alarm in his eyes rising, "So that's why… I knew… I felt… our parents, every time they spoke of her they…" it was then that Mycroft's knees gave away and he fell on the floor suddenly, knees first. Sherlock was on his side quickly, leaving the gun forgotten on the floor as he put an arm behind his brother's back.

"Mycroft—" he called in urgent, his own voice cracking as he held his brother dear who seemed to have lost all spirit, his clammy hand touching the stone-cold ground.

"How could they forgive me?" Mycroft hissed, then he blinked back tears that even alarmed Sherlock, "Or maybe they didn't…I was the son who broke the family…"

"Mycroft!" Sherlock berated, almost terrified "Stop it, now! Nothing is your fault and if you don't stand up now  _they_  will catch us! Come on, brother!" But the older Holmes didn't listen and went on more quietly and his tone sent chill on Sherlock's spine.

"I was the government's… did I forsake my family in exchange of that position?"

It was then that Mycroft looked up at Sherlock with moist in his eyes now undeniable. Sherlock stared at his older brother, their silver eyes meeting and searching each other's gazes, knowing only how broken they both were, but Mycroft being uncharacteristically himself scared the hell out of the younger Holmes who shook his head vigorously as he saw the light leave his brother's eyes and only got filled with distress— the way he saw the light left Eurus' eyes when they met last in their ancestral home for a final encounter—

_Mycroft was lost—_

"No!" Sherlock hissed, gripping Mycroft's collar with both hands, his eyes directly looking into his older brother's soul, "No!" he repeated in the same determination that made Mycroft hold his breath, " _You didn't abandon anyone! You didn't abandon me! You were always there for me—you and I, we've always been together! You saved me more than I care to admit!"_  in a pleading tone he added, " _I need you to stay with me!"_

The stress in his voice made Mycroft stare at him and blink. "But Eurus…"

"Is as much as your responsibility as mine." Sherlock said hastily, slowly letting go of his brother's cloth, his hand falling on both his brother's good shoulder, "Eurus… made it impossible for you to have any alternatives… if you weren't there who knows what other people may have done with her… she… she wouldn't have survived the way she is. She wouldn't have been able to cope up with the world—and you know how cruel the world can be—you made it possible for all of us to function!  _You saved all of us, Mycroft! That's the truth!"_

The wailing and alarm sound seemed like a distant memory now as the Holmes brothers remained on the floor, their eyes transfixed at each other, letting the words sink in enough to be believed.

Sherlock wouldn't let go of Mycroft's gaze, not until he saw the spark of determination there. And just then Sherlock realized how he longed to see his older brother's sharp gaze return in its orbs, his witty remarks in every situation be it in grave danger. Because Mycroft was not one to get easily intimidated, not even by the proclamation of his own death; what Mycroft fear was more than his physical survival:  _it was losing himself in the process._

It was then than his brother bowed his head on his good hand and released a heavy sigh that Sherlock was convinced he too could breathe. He did, and slumped himself on the ground, his back on the wall and both forearms wrapped about his knees. He felt like he ran a marathon.

Seconds passed, then minutes.

The next thing, Sherlock had gotten up and had placed a careful hand under Mycroft's good arm and was pulling him upwards gently.

"We have to go."

Mycroft obeyed without another word and the Holmes brothers walked on the exit of the room, the younger supporting his older brother as he steered him silently out, onto the long tunnel of darkness with nothing save their breaths and walking away from everything that was behind.

Soon light was found at the very end of the tunnel. Sherlock had let go of Mycroft when his brother suddenly pulled his hand away and closed gripped the younger Holmes' wrist. Surprised, he turned to Mycroft who was quiet for a moment before insisting that he could walk on his own. The older Holmes went ahead of Sherlock then who brought up the rear. The tunnel's wall was moist as Sherlock pointed his mobile's torch here and there. Not long the two smelled the sea breeze and felt the cold wind of the outside force of nature. Looking at a distance, the two saw the sky not ten meters away with the sound of the waves tingling their ears.

They were almost out.

The bleak sky greeted Sherlock as he strode out first on to the shore, Mycroft a step behind him. The detective crossed the sand and stopped to scan the surrounding, frowning at the empty motorboat tied near the shore. He looked around with narrowed eyes, even reaching the distant waters, till he looked down the boat again the question forming on his lips, his grip on his gun tightening once again.

"Looks like this is all we have." He took a quick look at his mobile phone before turning to the motor boat with a deep frown forming on his face. "I hope you remembered how to swim?"

"I don't know about that," came Mycroft's solemn voice, "I think I'm not a fan of too much mobility… Besides, I think there is something I wish to know… because I don't really think we're going to have to use the boat anyway."

"Why is that?" Sherlock observed the sand. Something was not right.

"Because if I deduced correctly I'd say…" Mycroft's voice floated in the middle of the loud waves from behind the detective, "that everything here is of your doing. And that this is another attempt to take me away from the Secret Service."

Sherlock stood still, his eyes pointed at the sea. He slowly turned to his brother after a few moments, his eyes unblinking and hard. He found Mycroft still by the tunnel's opening, standing straight with eyes looking straight at him.

"What makes you say so?" the detective began quietly as they stood facing each other.

Mycroft pressed his lips. "I spied your watch. It's gone." He offered.

Sherlock unconsciously closed his left hand, aware of the absence of the gadget, eyes only on Mycroft who slowly took steps forward to the sand, his pale complexion revealed by the sky's light. Why wouldn't he look so exhausted, he had just been released from the hospital not a day ago…

"I was suspicious of you to begin with, but since it was my idea to go here in Sherrinford I thought it was impossible for anything to actually happen. This was a sudden visit, no one could have concocted a plan… but then, here we are." Mycroft stopped some five meters away, "You are the only one capable of thinking ahead, you are the first man I told this plan to. And it was not my intention to underestimate you." The older Holmes blinked carefully. "So?"

Sherlock drew himself to his full weight. "Is that all?"

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, "You kept looking distractedly on your mobile… at times too quick… as if merely scanning for something that could be taken from a glance. You took your wristwatch out to keep the habit of looking at it every time so as not to arouse suspicion. At the same time, your inherent disregard of our sister's well-being when the whole vicinity was under attack from merciless hood loom who but showed mercy in using their guns  _endlessly._  Even gun fires have limits, brother… and we didn't even encounter any of our faceless enemies. What we heard up the building as gunfire was not possible if the number of fire was to be counted. Thereby making me think they were merely inputs made to repeat in the sound of the alarms… recordings… I wonder how many people you got working for you here. They need to do all the timing – the return of electrical power and the sound of the gun coincide. No such thing as coincidence remember? Which makes me believe the people above are all unharmed and these are all a distraction to lead me down here. Like that time."

Sherlock slowly nodded, not intending to shy away from the truth when it was presented to him in a platter. How ironic it was that he was found out by the only man in the world he knew was the only one capable of the discovery. He relied on Mycroft's overwhelming distraction to put his senses at bay. He never should have underestimated the man for this was  _Mycroft._

Yet, it brought a small smile on Sherlock's lips that slowly faded upon seeing the stern look Mycroft was giving him. It made him look away.

"Really, Sherlock?" Mycroft began in a crisp tone not dissimilar to the old Mycroft, "Do you know how many people could have been hurt—"

"Yes, I estimated—" Sherlock quickly offered—

"Do you know how many inquiries this would make—? Do you even care—?"

Sherlock shook his head which only made Mycroft bristle.

"Is this how irresponsible you are? Is this what you do when you're desperate?"

"John could tell you a number of tales—"

"I don't care! Is there anything that happened there that was the truth at all!?"

At this, Sherlock's features turned somber again. "Of course there was." He whispered calmly that got the older Holmes quietly stare. "Everything I told you back there… they are as true to me as you they are to you."

"I don't believe you."

But Sherlock knew Mycroft's expression by heart enough to know better, all the same he remained giving his older brother his sincerest look who squirmed at the attention he was receiving.

"To what end do you plan to do this, dear brother?"

_"Brothermine."_  Sherlock said without warning.

"What?"

"It's brothermine. You use to call me that."

Mycroft blinked and shook his head— "I don't think this is the right time to be giving me your preferences, Sherlock—you just created chaos for some selfish reason—"

"This is my darkness brother." Said the younger Holmes, rendering his older brother speechless. "This is the me that you loved with your soul."

Sherlock was about to say more when something moved from the corner of his eyes. It was the same time when Mycroft's eyes widened as he looked past his brother on to the wide ocean, clearly seeing something the detective could not till finally he turned behind him.

Three men in black armed suits and dark shades were all standing behind him, carrying high caliber of guns pointing in his direction; coming out from the edge of the rock on Sherlock's right were two more. The younger Holmes sensed more movements and found two more men emerge behind Mycroft who was gaping at the new presence that clearly was not his younger brother's doing.

"Sherlock, is this part of your…" Mycroft began to clarify as Sherlock slowly retraced his steps till he was beside his brother, shielding him from the five men slowly advancing from the front.

"Obviously not." the detective muttered as they were surrounded and outnumbered.

A radio static sound sprang up from one of the man and Sherlock gave him a wary look. The static was not so clear for the brothers but the man definitely understood it and replied—

"Yeah, we got Holmes."

Sherlock reached for his older brother behind him, angry at himself once again for endangering the life he had been trying so hard to protect. Mycroft glanced at the man behind him with a worried expression on his face.

Moments later the static of the radio stopped, the man put down the radio and nodded his head to his men.

_"Take Sherlock Holmes."_

* * *

**-To be Continued-**

* * *

**_A/N: Yess, yesss here we are!_ **

_Climax is unstoppable now! :D_

**Thank you for Reading!**


	7. Broke

***** **The Day My Brother** *****

_**by: WhiteGloves** _

_What makes Mycroft, Mycroft and Sherlock, Sherlock?_

_Thank you all for turning to another chapter of-_

_**The Day My Brother...** _

* * *

**7: Broke**

* * *

Sherlock's eyes sparkled the moment his name was mentioned.

"Interesting." He breathed, not bothering to conceal his excitement that had been dampened because of the dangers exposed not to himself but to his brother. It would have been a different case had they called out Mycroft's name, which he had expected and would have fought raucously to prevent but this turn of events was truly unexpected and he would have labelled it as  _eight. John would murder him if he realized he's been left out!_

It was not what Mycroft Holmes was thinking, however.

Mycroft's eyes fell automatically on the dark curly head of his brother, who stood still as if in daze, staring intently at the men who ambushed them, who all meant business as they looked back with no hint of emotion save finish the job. Mycroft had been very unsettled the moment he saw them and thought they were after his life like everyone else who  _wanted_  the head of this  _Mycroft Holmes._ Despite the situation, he wondered sincerely what sort of training and self-preparation his former self must have had to survive this long in this line of trade. He knew he must be someone cunning, secretive and indeed dangerous to cope up with all the chase and guns and bombs right on his wake. Of how many kidnaps, ambushes and death threats his former self had endured he could only guess but he could no longer deny the fact that his previous one was not as peaceful as he imagined it to be. Sherlock said it was not his fault that he—his younger brother— kills people, yet here was a case and point. He knew Sherlock was capable of killing if only to protect him— _Sherlock had proven that as much._

Then Mycroft understood as his fingers relaxed from his ball of fist. He would not fight. He would tell Sherlock to stay down. There was no need for any struggle. He was ready to surrender.

But then the armed men seemed to have a different plan as they called Sherlock's name. Mycroft was stumped as he looked from the men to his younger brother.  _Why Sherlock?_

And as if his brain was capable of finding answers in a blink of an eye even though he didn't mean to—even without realizing, the older Holmes found more than five explanations like threads needed to be followed to find his answer. He was used with his brain finding things piece by piece with ease, like the word  _puzzlement_  was never found in his dictionary— _not even allowed_. It was all there to be explained—in the men's clothing. So, the older Holmes hesitated only a little and dared a step forward for Sherlock was one step away. Nobody seemed to mind what he does though, which added to his previous assumption.

"Sherlock—" he began cautiously, his eyes darting back towards the black cave-tunnel they had just come from.

"Stay behind…" the younger Holmes answered without turning to him, eyes obviously having a staring contest with the men, daring them to make contact. Mycroft looked down his brother's foot and found he had dig up his feet on the sand to make an allowance if a fight should break-out. But the way his knees had relaxed only meant Sherlock had decided to surrender himself anyway.

"Sherlock." Mycroft now said strongly for no brother of his was going to be taken right under his nose whether he remembered him or not or whether said brother did something as atrocious as sending a whole top security island into chaos just to take his older brother. Now that Mycroft thought about it, the pieced answer was making him doubt if his  _doubt_  was on the right place. Things were more complex than they seem given at how critical he was observing the armed force.

"Move it, Mycroft." Sherlock suddenly said, still not looking back, "You heard the men… I'm the one they want, surprisingly." He inclined his head backwards, "Go back."

"I'm not going anywhere," Mycroft found himself saying, watching as the men began moving without warning and Sherlock finally eased his arms to his side. Mycroft saw his reaction and panicked as their men moved forward the sand, their thick leathered boots leaving footsteps too deep while the sea continued to send waves violently on the shore.

"No time to be stubborn. This isn't about you." Sherlock said through gritted teeth, the guns now upon him and Mycroft stiffed right behind as one man took hold of his younger brother's arms and began searching him. They took his gun and jackknife hidden on his coat pocket. They took his two mobile phones too, before jerking his shoulder slightly on the side and making him face Mycroft sideways whose eyes he finally met.

The two brothers held each other's gazes with Mycroft darting his eyes from the men to his brother before shaking his head.

"It's odd, don't you think…" he began quietly, his own features relaxing even though he was still surrounded, his eyes fixated on the men in armed suit. It felt like something was itching on his head, tingling on his spine. A familiarity he couldn't remember, like a veil in his eyes that couldn't be lifted so he could see. But his senses heightening, his mental faculties on fire. "It's odd that these men should regard me as if they know me…"

"Quit acting like you know," Sherlock snapped, now feeling himself getting forced to move towards the shoreline where the boats were in, but the detective kept his eyes on his older brother as if knowing exactly what was on his mind. "Go, now!" he was caught by the arm and was getting dragged this time but he kept his eyes on the man standing alone on the side, who seemed to have figured out how neglectful these men had been of his presence. "Whatever you're thinking Mycroft—"

"Gentlemen." Mycroft interrupted before Sherlock could finish, garnering one or two of the black men in gears to look his way. "I'm afraid you are going to have to include me in this capture. Wherever he goes, I go too."

Sherlock snapped his head towards his older brother who was calmly standing there like he had ordered tea from the server. The men stopped on their tracks, obviously confused as they looked from the injured man to their leader and it was here where silence fell. The silence which made Sherlock's proclaim much louder—

 _"Are you an idiot?"_ he hissed.

Something in Mycroft's face changed as he blinked at his younger brother dourly. There Sherlock saw—for a second—his eyes had turned cold, to downright intimidating—the usual cold stare that Mycroft usually employs when bored out of his wits. The detective couldn't help staring as Mycroft looked back at him.

"On the contrary, I've never felt like myself..." he began quietly as he travelled his eyes back to the alpha of the squad, more determined than he felt. "Take me with you or a scandal will ensue. And I don't mean with the petty guns. You wouldn't want anyone to doubt your skills. I speak of what you insert in your veins that had been prohibited by the law of this nation which I don't doubt you serve."

Silence fell in the group again with Sherlock half impressed and half annoyed that his brother  _could tell so much_ about their _enemy_ and Mycroft was using his skills into manipulating people. Not that he hadn't done so in the past, but in such a little time, his amnesiac older brother had managed to control one of those talents them, Holmes brothers, were known for. It was something he thought had been lost with his Mycroft forever.

Mycroft promptly returned his gaze with a press of his lips and calmness. The alpha of the group took his moment to reply, struck by the out of the blue statement, before raising the radio on his mouth again where static began cracking once more. After his coded dialogue, the man then said on the line—

"Mr. Holmes requests an audience."

Sherlock gave out a long sigh at the obvious remark.

"Can't even do your job properly." He said sneeringly as the alpha looked back at him and heard the reply. He then raised his eyes to his subordinates and nodded.

"Take him."

Mycroft stood in his full height and didn't even wait for men to reach him. He stepped forward on his own, feeling like this was how his former self would have surrendered himself with all dignity.

* * *

Moments later, the Holmes brothers found themselves tucked away aboard a white speed boat with a cabin within. It was where they were both kept, facing each other on the wooden seat while the floor jumped about violently as it cascaded on the deep blue sea; too fast it moved that soon Sherrinford Island was like a speck in their eye and was gone. Hue of blue then enveloped everything from the sky to the sea and the strange white nothingness in between. Having seen no island around made Mycroft close his eyes with his good hand covering his face all throughout the journey.

Sherlock had kept his hands together quietly, his eyes boring on his older brother who sat opposite him with hand on his face, his injured arm kept close in an awkward position. Concerned draped his eyebrow as he observed Mycroft, knowing exactly what was causing his discomfort that shortly he was compelled to ask— in a voice enough to float above the rushing wind and water in the background—

"Are you alright?" Mycroft didn't move an inch which made Sherlock exhale. "That's why I told you not to come."

"You really think…" the older Holmes breathed softly without removing his palm on his face, "I'd leave my brother behind with an excuse… that I can't remember?" he finally removed his palm slowly and stared Sherlock in the face with glistening gray eyes. "You insult me…" then his eyes softened, "or will the other me… really… leave you behind?"

Sherlock saw the silent anticipation behind the man's hard look and decided to choose his words.

"The other you would have stayed behind because it's the smart choice."

Mycroft frowned behind his hand. "And I always make the smart choice?"

"It's what you call what you do." The younger Holmes saw his brother's unappeased expression and shook his head, "It's not something of your control. You tend to do what you  _reason_ is right—"

"Even if I abandon my own—?"

"It's not abandonment if you don't think it is—"

"So, it's a matter of thinking?" his eyebrows rose up in what appeared to be a disgruntled expression but Sherlock could see pain etched on his very features. "Like helping my own brother needs to be evaluated thoroughly—?"

"You've always been thorough. This—this is one of the stains in your reputation, brother."

"Well, then I'm glad I forgot." Mycroft snapped.

"You miss the point—"

"Do tell." Mycroft's tone had gotten colder this time, the pain in his eyes replaced by trouble, "Because right now I don't understand the concept of this  _Mycroft Holmes_  you seem to be desperately trying to defend. What sort of person am I to deny my brother the help he requires when he's to be abducted? Let alone killed?"

"Not like you can be of any help, the way you are." Sherlock observed. "How's the shoulder?"

"It's bearable compare to what you're trying to point out about my past." Mycroft sternly replied.

"Your past never made it easy for me either." Sherlock retorted, although more to himself. Sensing his brother's conflicting emotion and not wanting to add to the pain as another jerk in the boat made the older Holmes curse, the detective continued, "Look— its done—you're here. Forget about what I said."

His remark earned another glare as Sherlock understood what he had just said.

"Quite easy for you to say."

"Mycroft—"

"Do you suggest I have them throw me overboard—"

"You know that's not what I meant—"

"You could do it yourself, just push me—"

"Alright, I'm sorry." Sherlock hastily said, raising his hand and smacking it on his face impatiently, "Fine—do what you like—you've always been like that—always acting the smart one."

"Well, I'm sorry but at this moment I couldn't help but think  _I am the smart one."_

Sherlock had to stop and stare at this familiar scenario that his heart actually did summersault incomparable to the jolts the wave has been giving them. He stared at his brother intently for those were the words he never expected he would hear again. His pause earned him a frown.

"I didn't mean to make you sound foolish, Sherlock, but balancing our state of mind, I think you're overly being protective. Unless you want to explain to me where this 'smart choice' is coming from because in my opinion, you're the only one thinking my decision isn't so  _smart."_

"Because you're complicated." Sherlock's own voice rose in argument, his eyes lingering at his brother who had been treading the road of a human person.  _A decent human person_. Like John. Mycroft had fallen silent and the younger Holmes continued— "Alright? You—you got yourself in a position that made you the most important man in Britain… it isn't exactly safe for you to volunteer yourself to get abducted.  _It isn't smart."_

Old Mycroft would have hovered above him at being insulted in such a manner but his older brother at the moment merely blinked at him several times without speaking. Then dawning comprehension suddenly struck his gray eyes that for a moment, he stared at Sherlock, nodding. It was the consulting detective's turn to blink in confusion and this he conveyed with a frown on his expression and question in his eyes.

"I understand your point." Mycroft whispered after a while, straightening his back to where it was leaning and pressing his lips in discomfort as another fierce jolt of the sea assaulted them but they managed. "And that you're worried about me."

"Saying so wouldn't change your mind either way." Sherlock was not surprise his brother had only realized now. Even from the old times, Mycroft had refused any gesture of affection between them from the isolated Christmas greetings to merely saying a casual hello so Sherlock vowed to give him his best regards— _all his troubles._ "But if you were thinking clearly, you'd know that staying where you were could have saved me a lot of trouble."

"I don't mean to give it, less I didn't see it necessary to go. You see, getting left in a strange island with people I barely know, with said island just had had its nightmarish attack, I don't think anyone would have the time to come after  _you_ lot; and without any idea where you are being taken, I don't believe that's the smartest choice at all. The smartest choice is to stick together and see this through. And I do believe this is more about me than it is of you." He looked around pointing at the fact that they were both untied and sitting complacently inside the cabin, "I told you before… I want to know who I am."

"And in doing so, even endangering your life?"

"You're talking to the man who had the courage to step out of his hospital room on his own and wander around because he feels it necessary to move in order to gain his memories." Mycroft pointed out, his good hand reaching to his injured arm and bracing it close, "Although it proved futile because my body feels lethargic for some reason but I had been resolute then as I am now."

His conjecture surprised Sherlock but Mycroft was not quite done. With sudden attention to his younger brother, Mycroft leaned forward with eyebrows contracted, and lips thin. There was a strange paleness in his face that had nothing to do with their topic.

"That being said… you really feel like the old me would have left you alone?" it was a curious question and Sherlock was stunned once again at the attention he was receiving. If Mycroft had paid any attention to him at all in close proximity before, it was only because Jim Moriarty had threatened his life and they had to both put their heads together to thwart him.

"Sit back—"

"Answer."

"No."

"Good. Keep that clear in your head and you'll cease the unwarranted concern, I didn't come so you could worry about me. I came because I know this is  _about me._ So perhaps before we step out at the end of this adventure, you can enlighten me of what  _I do_  so I'd have more ideas of how to deal with the people pulling the strings on us both. _"_ Mycroft suddenly stated as he eased back on his seat again, the discoloration on his face apparent as another jolt disturbed his injured shoulder and Sherlock understood that his brother wanted to keep his thoughts away from the pain.

"Maybe you should lie down—" he began quietly.

"No." Mycroft gave him a pained smile, "That's a sign of weakness. I don't think my old self is accustomed to letting strangers be privy into that." He scanned his eyes at the men watching them from the windows of the lodge. Turning to Sherlock, who gave him a prompt nod. "And then I can tell you what I think of them because I know you want to know. We're both plenty smart, I should think there's always a comparison or battle of wits there somewhere."

The detective said nothing, remembering nostalgically all their—

"Deduction games." The words were out of his lips before he knew it. Mycroft's eyes twinkled.

"Is that what we call it?"

Sherlock pressed a smile, and then turning serious, he layout everything he knew of his brother,  _Mycroft Holmes._  Mycroft's eyes rounded and his full attention was on Sherlock who repeated the same sentiments he had said in the spur of the moment, that Mycroft was never a  _public man_. His dislike of people was never personal, it was just that they bore him easily, never mingling with them except during his university days as Mycroft deemed it necessary to make  _connections._ But aside from his fulfilled ambition to be working in a government office, Mycroft never liked public attention. It was enough he could exercise his mental faculties on the state troubles, help on what he thinks was a mere hobby, follow on his daily routine and save people albeit coincidentally.

"Whether you're glad you saved them," Sherlock was frowning heavily now, reminding himself that he himself could never fathom the depth of his older brother, "I would never know."

So he continued about his older brother's practice: his position in the government being known as  _minor_  for he never warranted public attention and especially not the attention of the political mongrels who'd be on his neck if they knew his threatening existence, that it was enough being the man behind every decision, every action that government has taken and that by right— _Mycroft Holmes is this country._

A chill ran down Mycroft's spine as Sherlock said this but without stopping, he went and explained in details his own involvement and his function in the society, his detective work and how the two of them had found common ground in working for the society, lessening on facts about their common animosity till he reached Eurus. At this, Sherlock paused awhile as he now remembered how John had told him about Eurus, about how Mycroft was involved in the deception. How he criticized his older brother in 221B to make him confess, only becoming lenient when he saw how disturb, how disrupted Mycroft was when relieving their family history…

And he thought…  _what would he do if he was on his brother's position?_

The answer came swiftly and he quickly understood: that he was glad he was not on his brother's shoes because his emotional response would be too terrifying for the world. Mycroft was meant to be there—to fix everything the only way his brain could—to make the hardest decision—and that was to detach himself as he usually does. But such decision had its payment—and Mycroft paid a heavy price. And the man didn't even know how broken he was because nobody bothered telling him so. They all assumed he was fine, assumed that all his decisions were good for the world—but no one ever asked if it was  _good for himself._

No one bothered asking. And Sherlock—the self-absorbed and self-centered him didn't bother too. Mycroft didn't have the ability to bother anyway so in the end it all resulted to his  _fear_  of Eurus— because Eurus was the factor he detached and put all his remaining emotions into. She represented something that gripped his lonely heart— _emotions._

The decision to keep her from the world was the best choice Sherlock had long understood. But he shook his head at the thought that it was not the right time to tell his brother. Not when they were in this predicament.

Mycroft's lips parted for a second when Sherlock stopped speaking as if wanting to know about their sister's history, but another unpredicted bounce in the boat jerked both brothers in their positions. Sherlock lashed his eyes to the men hovering outside their cabin as he felt the ship go a pace slower. They must be near.

Looking over to his brother with eyebrows furrowed, he saw that Mycroft had turned another shade of gray, clutching on his injured shoulder he had inadvertently leaned on during the violent movement. In silent fury, the detective stood up and went towards the door when upon closer inspection, he found that they were almost at the port. Narrowing his eyes, he could see three black cars parked and waiting by. He hastened towards his brother.

"We're almost here…" he began softly, seeing the profuse sweat on his forehead. "Can you manage till we get on land? We can ask them for medical assistance…"

"And what kind of war do you think we'll have if we cannot intimidate our enemy because we insisted shelter for the injured?"

"You know they won't hurt you."

"Why, because they were once my men?" this acknowledgement didn't surprise Sherlock.

"What gave them away?"

Mycroft mustered his strength as he leaned back on the chair with a deep sigh, "From the very beginning you had told me Sherrinford is a secured place and that no one save few people know of its existence. Why then do we find ourselves surrounded by men from the outside? When you said they weren't yours I already had my suspicion. Also, their Kevlar suit and their side pouch that must contain head harness and night vision goggles, I suspect, from UK Company Avon Protection. I recognized at once… those NIJ Level 3A ballistic vest, P90 sub machine gun and that encrypted radio, UHF 900 MHz… I wanted to tell you more about their pistol with its 17 rounds effective over 164 ft which could have killed us if you ensued battle; I've seen those men surrounding the Prime Minister and the Royal Family on the television the day on the hospital. They are the infantry of the secret service, aren't they? Much different from my secretary and her body guards who appeared most peaceful."

Sherlock raised and lowered his eyebrows at the obvious stunt. Sitting opposite his brother again, he looked him in the eye with much seriousness. "Then you know who it is that summons me? You have an idea?"

Mycroft met his eyes squarely. "Somebody I'm supposed to be acquainted with… who probably will scold you from ear to ear because you keep on getting in their way."

"Because their way is not for your safety, brother."

Mycroft closed his eyes as the boat stopped at its destination. "I had assumed as much. Or my detective brother, who couldn't even be bothered to visit me in the hospital for a few days—with reasons such as guilt—would not be here at all, pestering me. You would have continued neglecting me if you thought for a second I was safe with them, wouldn't you?"

There was an exchanged that passed between them that Sherlock knew wasn't there before. An understanding he had often shared with only his older brother of the past and John Watson, and later on with one woman who had died in his stead. A connection he shared with few people in the world, now appearing on his brother who had forgotten their bond for a while:  _it was mutual trust._

Sherlock does not intend to lose it again.

"You're an idiot coming here." Sherlock said flatly that earned a smile from the worn out older brother.

"I think so too. Because of how ungrateful you are." A sudden glint returned in Mycroft's eyes that made Sherlock narrow his own. There seemed to be more in his mind than what he cares to show and the younger Holmes was much perplexed as this reminded him of his secretive older brother.

They then heard people talking outside as steps began to approach their doorway. It was here that Sherlock, without warning, shot out a hand to his brother's good wrist and gripped it tight. Mycroft was so surprised his eyes flew back to his brother, bewildered. Sherlock's eyes were determined.

"Whatever it is they ask of you, I beg you Mycroft— _decline."_

* * *

The Holmes brother were lead into a car not fifteen minutes later. In the car, the brothers remained silent and only exchanged meaningful eye contacts as other guards joined them. Once or twice, Sherlock saw his brother doze off and couldn't help smiling a little at the peculiarity and feeling saddened at the same time. His older brother had only been out of the hospital not long ago and the stress of his constant travel, not to mention  _activities_ that made him run around was bound to exhaust all the reserved energy he had taken. And Mycroft was not built for such extreme activities to begin with that made Sherlock concerned. He watched his brother sleep, his head nodding off the window and kept his eyes on him all throughout the ride. He had not the time to elaborate to his brother the cryptic message he gave him in the boat, only that Mycroft would listen.

Because whoever was at the end of this thread, was the person Sherlock was loathed for Mycroft to meet.

It was only after an hour when their car stopped to a white house that Sherlock pulled his eyes away from his older brother. The house was only two story high with four windows counted. Not much could be discerned from it except that it was in an isolated suburb with no apparent residents outside. Obviously, the location was chosen for a reason.

The man wearing a dark shade beside Mycroft was about to call him to awake, but Sherlock halted him with a tap on his shoulder and nodded, indicating that he would do it himself. The secret service man nodded and opened the door on his other side while Sherlock lightly put himself beside his brother and placed a hand on his good shoulder, rousing him from his deep slumber. With a gentle call of his name, the older Holmes' eyes flicked open and seeing Sherlock's face, his tension at being awaken disappearing.

"Here we are." Sherlock pointed when the door beside Mycroft was opened and the two slid out of the car into the front yard of the white house where two more men were waiting silently.

"Seems tasteless." Mycroft commented as they walked towards the door, "But discreet."

"You can say that again once you see the perpetrator." Sherlock replied as they stopped by the white door. Second next, the door was opened and they were lead to the living room where the white light was on. The fireside was forgotten but the couch was very comfortable and this Mycroft found truly to his comfort, having been sitting on a hard wooden chair for an entire two hours.

"This my brother," Sherlock said without further ado as he sensed someone walking towards them from another room, "Is what was supposedly your  _safe house."_

Mycroft, who had just began making himself at home, suddenly sat in alert as this was said, followed by the sound of the clip clopping high heels from around the open door—the next thing a lean woman in her late 50s or so came out of the door, her hair in a tight bun behind her sharp eyes and pointed nose. She was donning a cream-colored dress and skirt, which was highlighted by her red lips. The way she carried herself was too authoritative, as suggested by her raised chin and straight eye looking pointedly at the older Holmes. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he remained standing beside his brother and went on—

"And this, brother, is your office associate,  _Lady Smallwood."_

Lady Smallwood merely glanced at the consulting detective before turning her full attention to Mycroft and said without preamble, her eyes filling not with concern but with condescension.

_"I told you they were going to break you. You didn't listen. And now they did."_

* * *

**-To be Continued-**

* * *

**_A/N: The final action keeps getting pushed forth!_ **

_Are you after blood so much too?! xD_

_Aye, prepare our hearts next time!_

_Sorry for the prolonged chapters! o.O last one next!a_

_Or not! *gasps*_

**Thank you for Reading!**


	8. Never Came Back

***** **The Day My Brother** *****

_**by: WhiteGloves** _

_Yikes! I am so late!_

_As compensation allow me to give a long drawn out chapter!_

_I hope you don't get bored^^ feel free to rant after haha!_

_Thank you for reading~_

_**The Day My Brother...** _

* * *

**8: Never Came Back (Part 1 of 4)**

* * *

**Part 1**

_**Sometime ago…** _

An exclusive meeting was called in a new boardroom inside the Palace of Westminster. Most would say it was new, for they never knew its existence till today. But the room had been there for as long as any other room in the Palace, hidden in plain sight after the unwinding corridors. The room was carpeted brown and was large enough to accommodate a number of two dozen people with black, comfortable chairs surrounding an oval shaped table. There was nothing interesting on the gray wall except the circular shaped lights reflected by the many spotlight bulbs atop the ceiling that also brightened up half the room.

The meeting was set early in the morning when most of the Parliament offices would be empty but not empty enough to cause suspicion especially with the common sight of people in suit that greet unwitting eyes. Then people in black suit, silent and grave as they were, would come ushering high ranking officers from the Metropolitan Department that holds police, detectives and constables alike to the Army soldier, Special Units, Airforce, and Marine towards their destination and one by one the chairs in the boardroom was filled.

The atmosphere was dense and severe as invited persons—old and young, male and female—marched inside with grave expression on their features. Some would talk in whispers, others would greet each other with a nod of recognition while others merely sat in silence, their hard eyes on each other, brooding.

A minute before the call time, the room was already full with its attendance complete except the empty chair at the center of the table where a large monitor hung. This caused more stirs in the meeting hall as they foresee how their inviter would appear. The men in black suit mechanically disappeared on the doorway till there were only two men standing outside, holding the knobs of the double doors. Silence fell in the room as the seconds closed in, excitement and anxiety barely inseparable whilst others were purely looking curious. Then finally, the clocked hit its mark and the room suddenly turned dim. The monitor sprang to life, but it only showed a silhouette of a man behind a desk, his shoulders erect and his tone business like the moment he greeted them.

"Well, good day and good tidings to some; and good luck for the rest. As indicated on the note we sent to you, we are on schedule. I believe it's already 9:01 and I would not want to delay your tea and scones." He paused, and some could sense the smile he had on his blank face. Then automatically, a dozen or so people stood up from their seats and took their leave without a word. Leaving the astounded half staring and pulling their heads from the monitor to the doorway, looking alarmed and confused with some calling out  _what's the meaning of this and that_ with addition of informal  _bloody hell_. When the last person was out, the men holding the door abruptly closed it with a snap.

The atmosphere grew more apprehensive as no more than ten persons were left staring at the screen where the unknown man waited, apparently drumming his fingers.

" _Who are you_?" one general called with his bristling white moustache, standing up.

The silhouette on the screen seemed to know of such outburst and readily replied, "That is least of your concern for today's program. And if my people and summoning aren't enough for you to figure it out, I'd rather remain in the dark in your thoughts, general. Do sit down. Hypertension isn't good for you."

The general made an attempt to make another outburst but ended up muttering curses and sitting down anyways.

"Most of you I hope, with the exclusion of General Houghton who strongly displayed otherwise, already know that the Cabinet Office, the only office in authority over powerful persons such as yourself who may have deemed themselves  _untouchables_ — together with the Secret Service" every person in the hall sat with great intensity, others looked steadfast at others while the other officers had their eyes glued on the monitor as it continued— "summoned you for one single purpose:  _eradication of local connection to terrorists of political gains._  Because all of you here have been proven guilty of alliance with terrorist groups."

A hushed silence fell as the group began shifting uncomfortably, it even seemed that they have forgotten to breathe at this revelation; it was obvious that all attention was now on the screen and though the AC was on, perspiration began to form and slide down their eyebrows.

"Good." The blank man on the screen said grimly as his silhouette remained straight and haughty, "Denying your connection now would be far too late. If anyone had questioned their obvious hand in terrorism, I would have simply laid out all evidences from the Secret Service for instance, local police officers from General Richardson's yard have been giving false reports to the Office and feeding the media of different cases of assault on the Muslim Community in the country, obviously to stimulate a possible ISIS attack, giving the world a reason to believe that if our country became a victim to terrorism again, it is because of the mistreatment of its people residing our soil."

"Preposterous!" cried General Richardson, a bulky man with clean cut black hair, square face and dark beard, his eyes were bright and angry, "Why would I instigate that kind of maniac attack?"

"Would you want me to call your own officers, your wiretapped calls and my own spies in your office as support, general? They are all under our custody and they all sing the same tune about all of you." Richardson made no motion after that and sat with his fist closed. The blank screen went on with his tone now stern and threatening, "This is not the only case of our own Authorities to have connected with terrorist. All of you, in some way or the other became means and tools in the strings of terrorism in the past, no matter how minor. Cheap tricks of leaving evidences where evidences are not supposedly found but planted, leaving secured area infiltrated by high risked persons, intentionally leaving high populated area with less security, taking innocent people and introducing them as high profiled extremist and  _feeding media of lies about terrorists…_  and here I thought I'm the only one capable of deception."

A moment of silence fell, leaving only the sound of the man on the screen drumming his table with his finger till he was quite satisfied—apparently his way of controlling his intolerance at the trouble they were causing him. Then he spoke again, and if possible, a lot quieter.

"I would not say  _'I don't know why'_  you condoned terrorism being the group of people who's supposed to protect the country, but I suppose everything has the right price and the price I will give you right now will be your  _head and your liberty_. You have only one mean to achieve that and that is to work for me. In about sixty seconds your masters will call you—all of you—be them members of the Parliament or senators from another country.  _Oh yes, I know."_ He added with emphasis as he saw heads turn, "I know that such terrorism has reached international scale and that leaders from other nation are trying to seize control of this country by committing acts of terror _. That, I will never allow_. So, this is an entrapment operation, I have already sent them a false message on  _The Network_  I have infiltrated long ago—of how an international terrorist plans to recruit local people of global scale— _in short, I am playing as The Network because I am The Network._  You are gathered here as mere tools, as you are to your masters. Tool to prove their accountability with what I spoke of and afterwards no investigations will be needed. If they spoke the first word—the only code word I sent on the Network then my men will seize them for probing. Guilty as you are but for self-preservation, I hope you know which side to choose. Especially if I am the  _enemy._ Give them no reason not to utter it.  _We'll know."_

Even the generals and other high-ranking officers in the room felt overwhelmed, with the speaker's air of mystery shrouded with darkness and the knowledge the he knows everything that was ever happening in the government. This instilled fear, and it has taken hold the moment their mobiles rang at the exact second given, making some jump up in surprise while others carefully took their gadgets out with eyes transfixed on the screen. Then one by one, they answered and all ears heard the cue word that opened the gates to their hell:

_Pinochet._

From the shadows of the room, Secret Service men in black suit materialized out of nowhere and was now collecting the phones from each persons. Afterwards, the doors open and more men in black suit, now with proper I.D of the Her Majesty came in and began standing behind the seated individuals to arrest them.

The man on the monitor seemingly put his elbows on the table and put his hands together.

"You will be in confinement less for your crime, more for your own security. Your families will also be watched at maximum than before as we make progress on this case. Rest assured that this will be our last meeting and if a second time occurs… well, nobody's that unfortunate."

General Houghton stood up in his full height as the others did, his expression livid as he eyed the man on the screen. He was obviously very unhappy with the turn of the events as he was one of those people expecting a dreary morning of plans and taxing reforms on police chart. But he was also impressed and quite annoyed too that he had to ask one more time but never really expecting a proper answer,  _"Just who are you and how can you be so sure of these things?"_

The man on the screen sat still, and then the last thing they heard was a soft chuckle before the whole monitor went blank, leaving a distinct shadow of a capital letter  _M._

* * *

**_Present…_ **

Lady Alicia Smallwood sat in one of the large, comfortable chairs in the middle of the room, with its back on the furnace, in front of the Holmes brothers with her legs crossed about her, her body arched towards the side table where she helped herself with some wine. Sherlock stood rooted on the spot beside Mycroft's chair, who was eyeing the Lady with interest and wonder. When she turned to them, she saw Mycroft's expression and couldn't help a small smile.

"You've never looked at me so intensely before."

Mycroft didn't say anything but Sherlock was ever the last word, "He is yet to master the art of self-control again so don't misunderstand. Also, if you have any plans of laying hands on him you'd be successful, he's willing to be kidnap anywhere these days to spare others the trouble."

Mycroft gave Sherlock a reprimanding side glance which the younger Holmes returned with a narrowed one. The Lady watched the brother before sipping on her glass and saying— "You mean he is less guarded by his superiority?"

"Less head, yes—" Sherlock agreed.

"He means I am more inclined to be  _human."_  Mycroft said, silver eyes falling on Lady Smallwood, "Somehow I get this idea the former me was an unfeeling excuse for a man—"

"You were." She confirmed without much as a blink, startling Mycroft and making Sherlock smirk. "But sharper and the most brilliant minded than everyone I know in this age. Your genius saved this country for decades, Mr. Holmes, and it will again one last time if you are as ready as I think you are."

"I think you got the wrong idea." Sherlock's languid voice cut in before his older brother could speak and the younger Holmes put a protective hand on his brother's uninjured shoulder, "Mycroft isn't here to finish any battle, he is only here to supervise you on your next steps; we both know you can't survive without his advices."

Lady Smallwood's sharp eyes turned to Sherlock and it didn't look like she was willing to humor him any further.

"I think you are the one whose got the wrong idea." She said plainly, her lips thinning, "Tell me, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, what do you know of our 'battle'? And from my many reports, why do you keep interfering with our operations to take custody of your brother?"

"He's my brother, plain and simple." Sherlock replied dryly.

"Who has dedicated his entire life serving the nation as the man behind this country, he isn't just your brother anymore—he is the  _government, for the people and Her Majesty_."

"And looked where that has gotten him and see where it's still taking him." Sherlock's eyes burned as he clashed words with the Lady, his straight demeanor unchanging. "He nearly got killed in the process and lost himself—"

"And whose fault do you think that was?" the Lady was relentless, "The attack on your brother's office?"

Sherlock fell silent as he stood straight, with his eyes darkening, his hold on his brother's shoulder finally loosening—till he felt Mycroft's own hand grip his hand and stayed it. Looking down at his older brother, he found him giving him a reassuring glance

"This isn't a question about where it happened and when," the older Holmes averted his eyes at Lady Smallwood impassively, "The man was already on his post, waiting. Whether it happened sooner or later, he was already there, planted to spot me. If we want to look at the worse scenario, he could have grabbed me the moment I come out of the building and we'll both be dead. Or worst, innocent by standers could have been part of the casualty. Stop indicting my brother for an action he could never have foreseen, I believe it was my job."

Even Sherlock's face lost some of its grimness, like light shining on a clouded sky. And it was now Lady Smallwood's turn to give Mycroft a look of wonder.

"I see." She said after a while, placing her wine glass on the table and leaning on her chair, "So despite your accident, your amnesia even, and him being the reason for it, you're still as blindly attached and unconditionally devoted to your younger brother as ever?"

Mycroft smiled. "I'm glad some things never changed."

Behind him, Sherlock secretly smiled that disappeared the moment he found Lady Smallwood's eyes on him. He stood rigid and stayed his dark eyes on her, not knowing the full scheme the Lady was capable of doing but ready to stand with Mycroft even at the gates of doom. It was the older Holmes who ended the informal argument.

"Now that part is clear," he said in an authoritative tone both Sherlock and Lady Smallwood was quite surprise he still possess, "Would you mind shedding some light on this business, Lady Smallwood? Of why the Secret Service is determined to keep me, although I have my ideas, why brother refuses to give me up in your otherwise capable hands and why," this time a curt on Mycroft's eyebrows appeared, "why have you decided to summon Sherlock Holmes instead? I don't think you are the enemy if you are working for me as Sherlock suggests you are."

There was only a fleeting moment where she hesitated, then she took one look at her left side and gave a nod. The next thing they heard footsteps walking away and all corners with doors inside the house shut close. Sherlock knew there were other people there whilst Mycroft had to suppress his surprise. It was then that she turned to them with undivided attention.

"I can answer two out of three, for your brother's reason however, I think he can manage his own. I do not know how much you remember of our governmental activities—"

"None." Mycroft promptly replied. She stopped long enough to take that fact in and Sherlock—seemingly seeing the hurt that crossed her eyes for a second—saw that she realized she had lost the colleague who had been with her through the toughest years of their reign, the person who was also her advisor, a great mentor and  _friend even._  The only person who must understand her position, its disadvantages in family affair, its personal damage albeit no one would admit given their pride at what they do. Much like Sherlock who feared losing his brother in a way that would make him less like himself—because that was what Mycroft's presence does to him; John may be there to attach him to his inner emotion and humanity but Mycroft was there to attach him to the heights of his intellect, never letting his emotion cloud his judgment, to maximize his gift for the benefit of the greater many. Mycroft was always and will be his superior in that regard. And now, Lady Smallwood saw a stranger in front of her who was Mycroft but not Mycroft. Sherlock silently sympathized with her, but not enough to remember what she was about to request of them later.

"Well, to make it short, of all the national problem we've had to deal with, terrorist cells have always been our major concern." She smoothly continued, Mycroft oblivious to her sudden pause, "We have been devising counter measurements to counter terrorism ever since, and as you yourself have explained, the only preventive task to do is to penetrate and destroy terrorist cells in advance. Which means tireless intelligence and with you behind it all, we were able to put up defense, especially after you've founded  _The Network."_

Mycroft listened with all attention but fail to grasp the reason why Sherlock was ogling at the Lady with a bizarre expression. He reacted distinctively, his expression hardened, his hand slipped from Mycroft's shoulder and fell down to his side with his breath held.

"Mycroft  _founded_ The Network _?"_  he asked half askance and half in awe.

Lady Smallwood raised her eyes up to him. "To be precise, your brother  _is_  the Network. Although it actually began with him finding the string to which the terrorists cells interact, he made himself known as part of them, a local terrorist, creating his own name under the National Action and completely immersing himself in their activity."

"But that's risky, he'll have to prove he's an actual terrorist by delivering incidents…" Sherlock began but the answer soon came to him and his voice faltered as the Lady nodded as if reading his mind, his face becoming visibly serious.

"Yes. He did." She said with a straight face, "Minor events at first, stabbing incidents, carjacks, bombs… all staged of course, with paid  _crisis actors,_ setup from the screamers, runners, injured and of course,  _death._  One of which was last year, at the Parsons Green London Underground. But then  _you know that._ "

"I've only seen my brother's work once," Sherlock admitted quietly, his dark eyes hard and unblinking, "the 007 flight was an eye opener." Looking down at the Mycroft beside him who was looking at him with a silent expression as if trying to follow the conversation, he explained, "Do you have any recollections of the Coventry Conundrum?"

Mycroft's eyes quickly lit up. "One of the many facts I remember about other people. World War II, British spies were reading on German codes and found the Germans were going to hit the Coventry soon. If they evacuate people, they will realize their messages are being read… so it was to save lives of the Coventry people but lose many or lose the whole Coventry but save lives of millions at stake."

"When you found out from your source,  _The Network_ apparently _,_  that they were planning to hijack an airplane and implode it, you were put in the same situation. To save the plane and risk the suspicion of the terrorists in your network and never trust you again if you prevent the bombing, or to continue with the plan, kill everyone in the plane but save many lives later. You devised a neat plan of putting dead bodies on the aircraft and then…" Sherlock could remember everything clearly as if it was yesterday. How Adler had manipulated him to get to his brother and how it was a stroke of luck that at the last moment he was able to put things in the right order, sparing Mycroft the heavy load and consequences it would have been that was nearly added to his already burdened shoulder. Sherlock stared at his brother and felt a strange swell of gratefulness for the brother he never appreciated before. He smiled at him and said the words he meant for him which Mycroft has forgotten,  _"You were great."_

"I did that?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow and then looked at Lady Smallwood, "You mean to say, this  _Network_  is something I control—to monitor movements of terrorism… and when called upon an action,  _I make my own terrorism?_ "

"If it is necessary, yes. You needed to protect your position in the Network. You easily get their exchange and once certain, you devise stage plans, hoax of terrorism in order to avoid actual casualties."

"But what of the people's morale?" Mycroft found himself saying, shock by the revelations, "The effects on the psychology of people—? The deceit and lies—?" he looked up at Sherlock, hoping to get support but was surprised to see his younger brother's face was impassive.

"I told you, always the  _smart choice."_  Sherlock said in a soft voice, meeting his brother's eyes and holding them, "Lives are at stake, brother. It is their happiness over their lives… which would you choose? You never wanted to cloth them in the false idea of protection, you wanted to protect their  _lives_ , Mycroft. That's what matters."

"He's right. And you've said it many times." Lady Smallwood added with a small sigh, "Fear would also make people more vigilant, more responsible and more reliant to the government."

"Submissive, you mean." Sherlock noted with an arch of his brows to which Lady Smallwood made no attempt to deny.

"Whichever is the term, this is how we prevent the loss of unnecessary lives," she went on, "This is how your government functions against the atrocity of the uncontrolled world. The Network has provided us intelligence that had saved lives not only in this country but across seas. Mr. Holmes, it would even be safe to say  _you are the World Government._  Unfortunately, this is the very reason why you are the main target of terrorism now." Both Holmes brothers watched her with same sharp eyes and she was undaunted as she narrowed her own just as twilight outside the window formed, her eyes on Sherlock. "In answer to your first question, we first need to ask the second. Why Sherlock Holmes refuse to give you to the government?"

"Because someone in your government wants my brother dead." Sherlock said with such austerity, "You know he had just been attack but why was his security slacking? I was able to get pass your guards a number of times without detection, someone even left him to wander around the hospital and report he was nowhere near the vicinity after a thorough research? And how did I find him?  _Inside the hospital, underground with a terrorist._  I want an explanation on that."

Mycroft stared at his brother for a long while, till he heard Lady Smallwood's sigh again.

"Well, there was a time your brother caught a large number of high ranking government people with connection to terrorist cells. He purged them all out including… high offices, I'm sure you've heard of those senior politicians who had to 'resign' due to many… reasons. Even the previous PM was nearly convicted that's why he resigned…. To make it brief, your brother has made plenty of enemies who do not know who they were dealing with…  _until such a time_." Her tone changed dramatically into a warning that got Sherlock's full attention as he comprehended her meaning.

"What do you mean? How did they find Mycroft out?"

"We have no means of knowing, but your brother's name was given to terrorist cells as the main object behind the campaign of anti-terrorism. And that he was the biggest threat to all terrorist around the world. Just imagine your brother decoding this message from  _The Network,_ realizing it was himself who was the main center of attention and finding out all the plots and plans against himself that reads  _we will break him_. I remember your own words exactly as you said them, you said, ' _Oh god, they spelt my name wrong'_ " she looked Mycroft in the eye with fondness, even Mycroft shared her smile. "It took awhile for them to realize their mistake and once they did, you were more than prepared for them."

"Bulletproof vest." Sherlock gasped with closed eyes as something dawned on him again. When he opened them, he found his brother and the Lady watching him. "That was why you were wearing that on the day of the bombing. That was why your umbrella was also shock absorbent, I thought it was interesting that you made it more durable when I dug you up from the rubble and found you breathing. You were prepared for an attack. If you hadn't prepared those things you would have been dead by now."

Mycroft made no response but had another idea of his former self. "My self-preservation must be strong."

"No, you just refuse to be killed by simpletons with guns and bombs." His younger brother supplied.

"Oh."

"With the way how things worked, it seemed they were given intel on where you work, thus the hundredth attempt to your life." Lady Smallwood took another glass of wine and drank once as if needing a push to say it, with Mycroft watching the bottle get empty and feeling the need to drink one too. "Sherlock is right in believing we have another high government officer linked to this terrorist, he is also right not to trust us. But it is not the main reason why the Secret Service is determined to keep you, although we aspire to protect you as much as we can, something changed. This is because of another incident that transpired shortly after the bombing of your office. This requires your cooperation, another reason why your younger brother does not trust us."

"What's that?"

Her face hardened in concern. "The Royal Wedding." When nobody spoke, she licked her lips, put the glass down and uncrossed her legs, looking very uncomfortable now and both the Holmes brothers detect her uneasiness, "The Prince invited guests from Washington, they were a group of adults, of course, being friends with the Prince and the Duchess… they… requested that they be on their own as they tour the country."

Sherlock frowned but his eyes lit with fire as the looming answer came close to him. "What's that got to do with Mycroft?"

"They were never seen since." Lady Smallwood finished quietly, "And after days we received a notice from terrorist cells of how their three American hostages will be executed if we do not comply to their request. They wanted Mycroft Holmes:  _Dead or Alive."_

Mycroft's jaw fell open and Sherlock was already beside himself, thinking.

"They knew he survived their attack…" his eyes flashed dangerously, "there's a mole in your system you have to get rid of." To which the she nodded in agreement.

"We're near that, we have our surveillances but without your brother, the speed suffers greatly." She then eyed Mycroft, "The Royal family is highly concerned but we've kept this news from the media for awhile now. Their families in Washington could not be informed without your direction as we deem the Americans quite—in nature—more trusting of their own government and soon they would inform them which would lead to things getting out of hand. Not to mention the demands of the terrorists to get you. More inquiries would be made, more publicity. The stakes are clear, and if we cannot handle this on our own, we will have to inform the US Embassy. This was how we imagined it once we get you. To get your consent once you are up to date, to reveal you to the public as a government office worker who lost his memories who found the pattern on terrorists' attacks because there are, you've pointed them yourself… we were planning to make you the scapegoat for this affair."

Sherlock was angry but he kept himself thinking straight. There was no time to delay for then he also saw the pattern and could not put blame her or the cabinet. He couldn't even blame the stupidity of the foreigners knowing a country under maximum alert level and still insists on going on their own. No, what he was after next was the last question that was voiced by Mycroft out loud.

"And what of my brother? Why did you want to see him?"

"He was our only choice." Lady Smallwood admitted, leaning back on her chair with a surrendered look, "When I was informed that he tried to take you from the hospital, it changed everything. We thought Sherlock Holmes didn't want anything to do with you since he was mostly out of reach during the discussion of your custody, but then he appeared and seemed to take interest in your matters so I had this idea… that maybe you could help device a plan where…" she stopped, seeing the look on Sherlock's eyes.

"No."

Mycroft understood too and had lowered his eyes on the floor and falling in deep thoughts.

"We need your cooperation—" the lady tried again but Sherlock's tone was final.

"No." the detective stood in his full height, "You want me to device a plan where Mycroft will be the bait to save the lives of the hostages, ergo endangering his life a second time. You're asking me to sacrifice my brother's safety. _"_

"That's why you're the one who will plan it! I would be at ease and assured that everything will be under control if at least you are involved!"

Sherlock shook his head, "If Mycroft hadn't been injured—if he had been the same—I would have pushed him on the battlefield without doubts, but you're asking me to put him in danger—he's not been out of the hospital for long and he has amnesia! You want to send a lamb in a pack of wolves' den? You're insane."

Words left Lady Smallwood for the first time, and her appealing eyes turned to Mycroft who was now watching them with deep set eyes, his injured hand closed into a fist. Sherlock immediately knelt beside him and grasped his good arm.

"Mycroft, for godsake I told you  _not to listen to them._ "

Mycroft met Sherlock's determined eyes and saw true concern there. He pressed his lips as he studied his younger brother's face, before turning his eyes to Lady Smallwood.

"I'm sorry. But my brother is right. Mr. Holmes is not ready for this."

Lady Smallwood closed her eyes and sighed long as she pushed herself back on the chair and put her left hand on her.

"I'm so sorry." Mycroft said in no one in particular as he cleared his throat and eyed the Lady while Sherlock silently heaved a sigh of relief. The Cabinet lady didn't seem as satisfied as he was.

"Then the victims are failed." She said silently.

"There will be something we can do for them, but I want Mycroft in a safe place. If there is a mole in your security, I don't think this place can count as a safehouse any longer. I cannot think of any plan unless he's safe." Sherlock insisted, looking suddenly calmer and more himself, then without ado, he added, "Take us back to Baker Street."

* * *

**Part 2**

Mycroft and Sherlock used one of the dark sedan of the British Government once Lady Smallwood was on her own car. They watched her car glide away, before taking the second one that was arranged for them. In it, the brothers were silent, both in deep thoughts as the sky darkened. There was a brief talk about  _The Network_  where Mycroft wanted to know more, especially why Sherlock seemed in full awe of the discovery that his own brother had expanded it not only in the scope of their country but of international level.

"Being the  _Network_  makes you the center of exchanged news, ideas and updates on terrorism, brother." Sherlock explained with much gusto, "It's much like my own Homeless Network that exchanges information directly from any areas in London. With them, I can monitor everyone and everywhere with one stroke of the keypad. But yours is more of an international scale— _Network of terrorists._ No wonder you're always so smug."

"Didn't you ever try infiltrating international networks?"

"I do when you tell me to." Sherlock said dismissively, an answer he would never give the old Mycroft who then would never let him hear the end of it, "International war and politics is more of your forte and I'm more on…  _uniqueness_ of the case, than glory. And London is quite a handful for me the way it is so there, that's one difference between us."

"And you usually listen to what I say?"

Sherlock had to pause and glance at the older Holmes who fortunately was looking not at him but outside the window. He looked away immediately the moment Mycroft's head pointed back at him.

"On good days." He replied shortly, "Depends on the mood and my interest on your case."

"Do I share international secrets with you?"

The younger Holmes chuckled and shook his head. "You always were a spoilsport." Then Sherlock looked back at him with a sudden jolt, "Why, do you remember anything about factual top secrets?"

"I think I do…" Mycroft's face screwed up in deep thoughts, "they all seem… important on some scale but the details are not all clear." He fell silent all of a sudden and his good hand shot up to his head.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock didn't take his eyes off his older brother. "Don't push it, if you can't remember…"

Mycroft nodded slowly with eyes tightly closed as if in pain. "Headaches are as common as breathing to me… but that's what you get when you forget to prepare a shock-proof hat to protect the head." He glanced at Sherlock with a smirk which the detective returned.

"You'll get a proper sleep once we're home."

"221B. I remember reading that on my file." Mycroft added as he lowered his hand on his lap, "It says it's my… occasional destination when upon emergencies. What does that mean, do I only visit you when I need something?"

Sherlock kept his eyes on the window and felt his brother's eyes bore at the back of his head. When he felt he couldn't dodge any longer, he carefully and masterfully chose his words.

"You don't often go out, Mycroft." He looked him in the eye, "Your life is set on rails, Parliament, your office, Diogenes, Pall Mall… 221B is like your breathe of fresh air, away from all the mess of political nature and national crisis. It's the only place with the most eccentric people you can meet. And you always have it under surveillance, I'm sure you've read that too."

"Because you always cause trouble?"

"I don't look for trouble, it finds me." Sherlock said through gritted teeth. "But 221B has made its own reputation and as long as its around, somehow Londoners feel safer. That's kind of like a similar job to you except I'm more famous."

"Fame has its consequences, I suppose." Mycroft frowned as he touched his limp arm, "John told me he's made a whole blog about you. I should like to read it sometime… when I have the strength."

At this, Sherlock shook his head, "Why read his blog? You can keep asking me questions."

"Why, what's wrong with his blog?"

"It'll give you a wrong impression."

"Impression is based on the writer's view, is it now? Then I would like to know what John Watson thinks of you, therefore I will see you in his light. Besides, you allowed him to publish it, everyone else knows so why can't I? I'm the one missing the information so I think I need it the most."

"But you have to rest tonight." Sherlock said lamely to which Mycroft now knows the reason and was smiling.

"Well, I did miss some good rest while we get taken to places… I think a good sleep will help me tonight."

At that, Sherlock made a mental note to throw away John's laptop.

* * *

They reached 221B after another hour and the night was already deep. Mycroft had fallen asleep on the ride and it was Sherlock who roused him again from slumber. The Secret Service men stood guarding them till the door was answered by Mrs. Hudson who was surprised at the sudden appearance of the Holmes brothers, but seeing as they were escorted, lead the two inside and shut the door close. It was some time before she heard the wheels of the car move and by that time Sherlock has already let his older brother inside his flat, setting him on John's empty chair.

"John?" he called as Mycroft looked around the room in wonder, his eyes already remembering every detail inside the flat while Sherlock removed his coat and went directly to the sockets to plug his dead powered mobile. "John!" he called again.

"In a minute, I'm changing Rosie's— _Sherlock?"_  John's voice was full of surprise from the bathroom way, "Bloody, you're back— hang on a sec—"

"Take your time." Sherlock muttered, completely forgetting his older brother who had stood up and was looking curiously at the jack knife on the mantle piece with many letters unopened.

"What is going on, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson's voice came creeping from the second landing, her footsteps unstoppable at coming. "Why are there men standing outside the building?"

"Tea, Mrs. Hudson, thank you!" Sherlock called, turning his mobile on and receiving plenty of messages he quickly scanned. Mrs. Hudson shook her head and turned to John who had just come out of the bathroom, smiling widely at Rosie whose cheeks were red from fresh tears and taking her away from John, knowing full well the men wouldn't be able to take care of her.

"Sherlock," John then stepped into the living room with such energy that surprised himself but before he could say anything else, his eyes then fell on Mycroft who had removed the jack knife and was holding the white envelopes in his hand. When their eyes met, Mycroft's face showed recognition and he smiled good naturedly.

"Doctor Watson, a pleasure to meet you again."

"Whoa." John threw Sherlock a look, "What have you done?  _Did you kidnap your brother?"_

"Don't be absurd," Sherlock called as he straightened his body and typed away, "Don't listen to him, Mycroft, he's always excited like that… thinking of the worst possible scenario… always."

"What?" John blinked and exchanged looks with Mycroft who was looking at him arching eyebrows. "I am  _not! I was worried, Sherlock!_ I lost contact with you after a day and now I find you with Mycroft—here in the house. What happened? I thought you'd never come back!"

"I took custody of him." Sherlock answered absentmindedly, eyes on his mobile, "Why isn't there any updates from my network? Has Greg called?"

"Not really, wait a second—" John frowned at Mycroft who pressed a smile and sat on the empty chair. "You took custody of him? How? Was it even legal?"

"Your doubt on me has no bounds." Sherlock grinned sarcastically as he turned to the laptop and began typing away. "Where is it, why isn't anyone contacting me? What's been happening to London, John?"

"If you call that planned protest with the bumbling balloon of blonde president some news, I don't know what to give you." John sat opposite Mycroft who had opened one letter after another and was putting them aside carefully after he reads them.

"I hope you don't mind me going over them." Mycroft began quietly with eyes remarkably focused on each document, "I believe these are cases for Sherlock he hasn't read yet… some of them are extremely domestic, strange and a bit… psychedelic and not entirely a case. Does Sherlock reject them?"

"No, he puts them aside because he can't solve them."

Mycroft's eyes rounded and blinked at his younger brother.

"Told you he's always on about the worsts." Came Sherlock without turning his head. Then as if remembering, he pulled his eyes from the screen and eyed the older Holmes. "I'm sorry, I forgot you have to rest." He straightened and ran to his bedroom, making John follow him with his eyes while Mycroft folded a paper and insert it inside its envelope carefully, before putting them back on the mantlepiece with the knife on top of it.

"He's right," John said when Mycroft turned at him with dark lines under his eyes, "You've been under some strain and even if I'm not a doctor, I'd require you 24 hours of sleep. And you haven't even change your cast. Wait here, I'll do something about it."

Mycroft watched as he disappeared then looked over at the table where the laptop screen was opened. Curiously, he walked towards it and read Sherlock's recent searches. Blinking back tiredness, Mycroft then noticed Sherlock's mobile on the table and took it. He began reading the short messages, the frown on his face deepening as he scrolled down.

"Here." John's voice called out just as Mycroft put Sherlock's phone down. The older Holmes watched as Doctor Watson put a medical kit down with a large bundle of clean linen on his  _whitegloved_  hands. "I already prepared the hot bath, and it took me awhile to put it on, I know for a fact you're OCD."

"Really?" Mycroft sat opposite the doctor who pulled his chair near his, "I wouldn't know."

John smirked and began removing Mycroft's bandaged. "Was it a long adventure? You kinda of smell like salt."

Mycroft smiled. "We took a speed boat out from Sherrinford. I heard you know about it?"

"Really?" John stared at the older Holmes in awe, "A speed boat with an injured passenger? Let me see—oh. That's what I was afraid of." Carefully, John had reached the end of Mycroft's bandaged and found the arm swollen with dark spots on the edges and red in the middle. The doctor gritted his teeth as the older Holmes slowly raised his arm to get the rest of the white line off him. "That's gonna be painful Mycroft."

"It's numb just awhile ago," Mycroft felt he would pass out from the pain and bit his lower lip.

"You shouldn't have travelled like that—Sherlo—" a hand grasped John's hand quickly and looking back, he found the older Holmes looking at him meaningfully and shook his head.

"He knows, of course." Mycroft assured him and pushed himself back on the chair, "You don't need to remind him, it's not his fault. I insisted on riding the boat."

John was giving the older Holmes a weighing look, before nodding once and shaking his head again. "You're both so seriously stubborn, you two. Well, come on you have to get cleaned if I'm to clean that mess you put yourself in. Sherlock's preparing the bed, and he's probably off to see Greg in this late hour, I heard him talking… well, he usually does talk to himself when he thinks he has company and has completely forgotten they don't follow him around."

"Well, it's easy to get lost inside the mind…" Mycroft stood up as he followed the doctor in the small hallway, and from there he could already hear Sherlock talking aloud. He smiled, "we both do have incredible minds."

* * *

Feeling refreshed and less tired, Mycroft came out of Sherlock's room after a good bath, change of bandaged and clean clothes that happened to be owned by his younger brother. The fact that it suited him didn't please Sherlock who merely said he needed to gain some pounds again. Then Mycroft joined them in the living room, with John downstairs to Mrs. Hudson while Sherlock put on his coat.

"You're off somewhere?" Mycroft sat on John's empty chair again with wonder in his eyes. "With the Detective Inspector Lestrade?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his recollection of the name to which the older Holmes quietly shrugged his good arm, "John told me. So?"

"I left a case in the Inspector's hands and he hasn't made contact." Sherlock put on his blue scarf and wrapped it about his neck, "I need to speak with him… you should sleep."

"I'll try." Mycroft nodded with a pointed look at the laptop in front of him. Sherlock following his eyes, gave an audible sigh as he put on his gloves. "If you're going to bother reading John's blog, I suggest you read first my own blog  _thescienceofdeduction._  . That way you'll experience a quality blog which is more suitable for your taste."

"I'm reading both then."

"Yes. After some rest." Sherlock then stepped closer to his brother's chair, before adding in what appeared to be an afterthought and somewhat awkward for the younger Holmes' part, "Good night, Mycroft."

"You too, brothermine."

Sherlock paused, then headed swiftly towards the stairs, passing John carefully who was carrying a sleeping Rosie on his arms. In the middle of the stairs, Sherlock suddenly stopped and grasped John's arm gently, who looked at him in full attention.

"Look after him, John. There are guards standing outside but I trust you the most."

John basically nodded, unable to find words to the sincerity in his best friend's words. Then Sherlock was out of sight and out of earshot from 221B. When John walked over to Mycroft he found the man already sitting by the laptop and opening the search tab.

"Aren't you too tired for that, Mycroft?"

"I can't sleep with an aching head… and curiosity over your blog."

John smiled a little, and then sighed as he placed Rosie in one hand and then helped Mycroft open his blog site. He left Mycroft there whose eyes was glued on the screen, before putting himself on his favorite chair, the baby still fast asleep on his arms, and watched the older Holmes quietly.

No, he doesn't intend to take his eyes off Mycroft. Not with the way Sherlock asked him to do it.

Unknown to John was Mycroft's own plan. Had John known of it, he would never have taken his eyes off him not even for a second when he put Rosie on her crib, because right at that moment a plan was already forming on the older Holmes' smart head. He had come up with it the moment he read Sherlock's mobile texts, and his conviction turned stronger at every page of John's blog, because there he saw his brother struggling on his own, his brother striving hard to live the life only he knows and lived as one who was doing good for people despite his quirks and habits. In John's eyes, Mycroft saw Sherlock as the selfless brother that that he was. A simple hero in his own way. The younger brother who was looking after his flatmate, expecting no help because his older brother was nowhere near in sight, possibly too absorbed with his government problems.

And now this government problems are left unsolved, and if his instinct was right, he just knew Sherlock was about to do something about it. It didn't seem like Sherlock was one of those people who would let three innocent hostages be sacrificed, especially if his own flesh and blood was the reason.  _He just knew they were not like that, him and Sherlock._ If he could read Sherlock properly, he just knew his brother would act on his own and recklessly at that, like the many times he tried to abduct his own brother. No. Sherlock was still too flawed and without the Service's help… but Sherlock wouldn't ask them if it meant involving him, Mycroft.

So, there was only one plan left and it was all on Mycroft to initiate. He knew Lady Smallwood haven't given up on him, seeing the look on her eyes when they parted ways, she was communicating. Why else would she leave her guards around?

All he had to do now was finish reading the blog and wait for John's departure for the other room to leave his baby behind. The moment he did, he would seize his chance because he realized one thing in this game.  _It was all mind games_  and who better play than the expert? He may have taken some damage but his brain was still a work of wonder.

_Though he has to do something about that terrible ache that would grip him now and then._

Still, it was all a go. He silently knew he would never come back in 221B again and that saddened him a little.

After some time, he heard John abruptly stand up after a quarter of an hour, and then left the room. Mycroft had longed finished the blog and was already checking Sherlock's interesting little dark blog when it happened. Making up his mind, the older Holmes raised his eyes, and then stood up from where he was sitting. He ached all over, but time was of the essence and lives were at stake. A second next, and Mycroft was gone.

When John came out, he found the empty chair and quickly looked around, but then all he saw was the writing on the laptop screen in a blank note:  _Give my regards to Sherlock. Good bye._

* * *

**-To be Continued-**

* * *

**_A/N: AHhhh the final chapter is also a GO!_ **

_I am really, truly sorry for being late (2 weeks at least)_

_Things had gone hectic this last few days!_

_But we'll deliver the last chapter as early as possible!_

_And the epilogue! Thank you for the support!_

**Thank you for Reading!**


	9. Never Came Back II

***** **The Day My Brother** *****

_**by: WhiteGloves** _

_WHOOO! I did it ^o^_

_I managed to beat time and er... delays!_

_I'm so glad... just glad to deliver^^_

_Thank you everyone for following it till this part!_

_Warning for flying curses and running~ you are reading~_

_**The Day My Brother...** _

* * *

**9: Never Came Back (Part 3 and 4)**

* * *

**_Part 3_ **

"You don't know how glad I am to see you."

Mycroft kept his eyes to Lady Smallwood who was behind her office table, watching him with the same heavy eyes as if both relieved and saddened that he came, at the same time leaving a trace of  _faith_ that she believed he would not abandon her all together. Mycroft wanted to know where her confidence was coming from as he remained standing by the door of her open office while guards who delivered him stood outside, but then realized that she probably knew him best among anyone,  _even Sherlock_ , and knows the  _real_  Mycroft Holmes would never abandon the government when its need was dire. In that respect, Mycroft never felt more himself as he stepped inside the large, brown room with wooden floors and craftly designed interiors, portraits of monarchy and landscapes, but most especially was that of Margaret Thatcher, who has her own shrine on the left corner beside the hearth of the room. She waited for him to settle himself, but Mycroft remained standing in the middle of the room, eyes going around the vicinity as the door was closed behind him, his eyes finally falling on the grandfather clock that read past midnight. He heard her shuffle some folders and then heard the familiar clip clop of her high heels. The next thing she had motioned for him to sit on the sofa, where she also sat on the single comfortable chair where the side table with the lamp was on. Mycroft followed her and sat down, feeling a deep sigh leave him as he finally settled down.

"Do you handle everything on your own?" was his first question, noting evidences of singularity and isolation themed in the whole room and understanding she was married once, twice…  _thrice,_ and not really fond of children. He met her eyes as she said in a matter of fact tone—

"Ever since your accident, yes."

"Were there only two of us?"

"No." she handed him a black folder, falling into a voice that she was likely to use when business was at hand, or a tone reserved for him, "There are three of us, Sir Edwin was last. But he is preoccupied at the moment of finding our  _mole_  as your younger brother would have it. He's been circling most of our agents and other branches with connection to our system, however he's been unsuccessful. I told you, we were greatly incapacitated when you disappeared. You are indispensable, Mycroft."

"Yet, I find myself in an expendable position because you now realize, with my memory gone, that I am less damaging to the government when captured by the enemies or thrown to the public eye as 'scapegoat', as you would have it." Mycroft said quietly, without any hint of sarcasm or bitterness, but plain  _truth;_ also acknowledging her use of his first name now that they were alone.

Lady Smallwood held his gaze, before looking down the folder and handing it to him without answering. The older Holmes did not push her as he opened the file and saw details of  _The Network_  from the very beginning of its finding and how it was meticulously laced like a web to different factions, groups big and small, to international terrorists—all names indicated, all important figures mentioned, from place to place and word to word of transactions and exchange. Mycroft couldn't help frowning as he browsed through the file.

"We never intended to make use of you this way," she then said slowly as the older Holmes flipped pages and saw his face attached on the file, photos taken from different positions and angles candidly, "I have never imagined for things to end where you have to be left on your own after everything you are to the government." He finally looked up at her and saw sincerity laced with the gravity of one who was bound to make the decision, the same eyes Mycroft recognized that was his own when he was probably in the position, "Mycroft, no one knows how our government is at risk of crumbling in its foundation now that you're not around. You've only been gone five days and we are already facing the biggest threat since Jim Moriarty—but back then we have  _you—_  even your brother would not have survived Moriarty if you hadn't devised his staged death."

Mycroft sat still, his mind already on John Watson's blog and the devil that was Moriarty who was his younger brother's former enemy. But he could not remember who he was besides what as on the blog so he kept his lips shut as he listened to her, with distress now apparent on her tone.

"We've raised the alarm to critical, deployed numbers of our foot soldiers and police always on patrol. This only shows how threatened we are now, we don't know  _when_  an actual attack would happen, no one else could use  _The Network_ as safely as you without compromising the position so we have been on guard. The public only knows we have to do this because of the recent bombing, they have no idea that the terrorists already have captives and now negotiating for you to be taken. I kept my foot down when in helplessness, Sir Edwin suggests that we should inform the CIA, which would reveal you as the target for bargain. We can work with them, yes, but we don't know how safe the American intelligence is, what with the recent political damages caused by their President who does not think highly of our government, or any government and has no confidence in his Secret Intelligence, and what more of our Intelligence?"

"He's not so bright, is he?" Mycroft mused as he distinctly remembered the blonde man in his big suit and big ego which unfortunately his mind seemed to forgot to forget.

"Which is why I disagreed at first. It's, as you would say, a  _lose end._ " She quipped with determination, "If one wrong information leaks from them, you will be the center of all attention. The public does not even know who you are, but if this gets known, every corner of our country will ring of your name—and the Mycroft Holmes whose work in the dark specifies he needs to be in the dark—will be the topic of all news, eclipsing even your own brother's famed identity. Who knows what else news reporters will uncover about you?"

"And yet again, you only disagreed at first?" he observed and she nodded eagerly.

"Indeed, it was me who pointed out that no damage will be done if you do not remember anything at all, that we can simply put you in front and let the media feast on you. You're hardly in any position now to connect the Cabinet. We can alter your records and say you work for the Secret Service as decoder and the terrorists had a wrong idea about you. And even if we bargain with them—with your memory lost—they would gain nothing. But again, I do not mean to put you in harm's way—"

"And yet here we are." Mycroft closed the folder and placed it neatly on the table, rendering Lady Smallwood silent as she watched him till finally they were looking at each other again.

"This is why I wanted your brother to cooperate with us and find the hostages before we reach that point." She continued with seriousness, "The only other action we can take without having to let the Americans know that three of their citizens have been jeopardized is to  _save_ them once and for all. Which means to have the terrorist think that we have agreed to surrender you. I don't want to put you in danger, Mycroft, but it's a risk we have to take. I'm sure you understand."

"Of course, I do." The older Holmes replied drily as he pulled his eyes thoughtfully on the folder, "I would not come here if I didn't intend to help. But Sherlock doesn't know. I believe you already know I can do this without him?" he looked at her inquiringly and found a small smile on her lips with a tinge of tenderness now on her expression.

"They told me you lost your memory… I was expecting a child, cringing and crying helplessly and already in need of constant attention. I loathed to see that. I loathed to see a comrade suffer such fate of one of the most brilliant minds I've seen. I didn't think anyone with amnesia could retain the same disposition as their former self. Again, you have exceeded my expectations. Your old self would have been proud."

"My mother told me anecdotes of my childhood." Mycroft sat properly with a grim expression, "I didn't think she included me crying in any episode, not even on my birth, so they thought me dead. And some peculiarities, here and there… let's just say I don't want to lower the bar."

"And you raised it proper." Her eyes steeled, "So we will work without Sherlock Holmes? Is that safe?"

"No." Mycroft quickly admitted and without hesitation, his eyes flickering as his mind expanded million times with ideas, "Nothing is safe with or without Sherlock. But you have me, that's all there is really. All I need now is the rest of the file of how  _The Network_  works, give me everything there is to know. Then give me an hour… that should suffice."

"And what of your Sherlock Holmes?"

Mycroft's face twisted into a lopsided smile. "He'll have to catch up, won't he? That's how he likes it, I gather. Let him. You can never control Sherlock and if I told him of the plan he'd refuse it so let him find us. He won't be too far behind. In the end, he might just be my saving grace."

* * *

By then Sherlock Holmes found himself seeking Detective Inspector Lestrade as he paved the way on the dark underground park of the Scotland Yard, walking straight along all the parked vehicles with constant sound of siren that could be heard from afar. He had been trying to communicate with the Inspector since he left his flat but all he got was his out of service voice message. Out of urgency and concern that the Inspector may have found the job two big for his hands, or that too dangerous for his means—Sherlock got a slight haunch that predicament the D.I may have found himself in a tricky situation—he went down to meet him. Cloaked in the shadows, he spotted the inspector's car where it was usually parked and saw signs that it has been used for the day, dispelling the idea that something horrific has happened to a good friend.

He waited there for half an hour, checking his watch that he now wore again, and looking at his mobile to find the bar for signal was still down. Keeping the mobile, he did his silent vigil, waiting for its owner to finally appear, meanwhile his mind working furiously on the fresh data he had just received from the Lady who was bound by her duty to sacrifice the rook on the board in order to protect the queen, and the rook playing the hardest was the willing victim to its predators. Predators that could also be found on its own side. No, Sherlock couldn't trust the Secret Service now. Not with Mycroft, not with the intricate details that laced the bombing, abduction and terrorism in which his brother was concerned.

Sherlock stared blankly into space, clearly unwilling to play  _that_  game. If the only way to avoid the foreseen end was to make a game play of his own, then he'd have to make sure all his pawns only have one King:  _him_  and no other _._  In short, he needed to make use of his  _Homeless Network_  one more time in order to find more about the abducted victims. He couldn't make a move on them now, although there were still plenty of reports coming from different areas. He needed Lestrade to give him something to work on regarding the man behind the mischief on his strings. He couldn't join the fray of the terrorist empty handed— _he needs to find and remove the threat on his threads._

After what seemed like long hours in the silence, a distant grumbling sound was heard, soon it got louder, and the numbers on the lift blinked lower and lower till there was a ring of a bell, and the lift door finally opened. There the familiar figure of the Detective Inspector came striding down the alley, his unsatisfied expression, put in with the way he was carrying himself clearly visible from where Sherlock was standing. Greg Lestrade walked with heavy steps, his hunched shoulder obvious sign of a tiring work, and his unsmiling lips shadowed the look in his eyes. The inspector rummaged for his keys after spotting the car, then stayed by the driver's side door to unlock it. Stopping long enough to lit a cigarette he found with his keys, he slid inside the car and snapped its doors with a loud thud.

"Greg." Sherlock said without preamble that shook the Detective Inspector enough to have his soul jump out of his body.

"Oh fucksake,  _Sherlock!"_  cried the startled head of the police. The consulting detective had lost no moment to enter the inspector's car while he was busy with his cigarette and invited himself on the passenger's seat. Looking strangely now at the curly haired detective, Greg took his time to settle his nerves, dropping his palm on his whole face till he was facing the intruder again. "I told you never to do that, I specifically told you not to scare the shit out of me again."

"Greg, how's the lead I asked you to follow?"

It must be because of how solemn Sherlock's countenance was and the tone of his voice that change the Detective Inspector's mood quicker than lightning.

"Nothing, there was nothing to follow, really." Greg said earnestly, his eyes straying on his dashboard, "I enquired about the dead bodies, turn out they weren't exactly  _Homeless,_  especially the last guy you found dead on St. George. He was a construction worker on Brighton and has got legal papers on him but he has no affiliation with any terrorist networks. Then the body of the man you shot on the parking lot of the hospital turned out to be just as you told me—a high ranking member in a terrorist organization but his body's been taken care of by them in the Service. I couldn't see any connection to any high-ranking officers, at least it's really out of my league, I think I even got my name on the list of the Service for acting suspiciously. Then the ten names of the Homeless you gave me were all positively  _Homeless._  You know they got all their stuff with them and no one to really identify them. I've also checked with the communication tower and found their sim cards positive for the use of your network, but nothing really shady in the messages, except one."

Sherlock turned. "What?"

Greg's brows furrowed. "Some guy labeled himself as  _Phonetic_. What's that some kind of a pun? Cause he uses a phone or something? Apparently, this guy messages the other ten or twenty of your network, but nothing irregular. He just sends them information of where he's at."

Sherlock's face turned impassive as the string of other words relative to the term came tumbling one after another that in the end the detective let out a sigh and looked away. "Great, the man behind the assault on my Homeless network is named  _Phonetic._ Really charming, but really smart, hiding behind a pseudo…  _Phonetic_ technically means symbols for sounds in codes. Alphabets. He uses mobile to send his letters thereby declaring himself master of the messages, just like how my  _Homeless Network_  was founded on text alone. Simple but smart. Who is he among them?"

"That's the thing. He isn't one of your ten Homeless you asked me to check out. He's just clearly on their message lists apart from you with his name on it. And to all your other networks. But he has since stopped the messages when I started asking questions around, probably wanted to lay low for a while. Or it's probably because he knows you're not on the Homeless network for some days now, I dunno. I never traced his location."

Sherlock fell silent, so silent all they could hear was the ticking of his watch. His eyes falling on the gadget, he was consequently reminded of his older brother and had to lean on the car seat, propped his right elbow on the car's window side and pressed his fist on his lips.

Sensing his sudden overcast mood, the Detective Inspector blinked at him. "You alright? Your brother okay?"

"There's been an abduction, Greg." Sherlock finally revealed, his flickering eyes looking at a distant, his mind reeling on the possibility that if he could not use his network then he had to find another means to save the foreigners. "Three Americans, friends of the Prince." He turned at the exact moment when the Inspector's face paled.

"A royal abduction?"

"Americans."

"When?"

"Four days ago, at most. They were taken by terrorist."

Greg turned his whole body to the consulting detective so violently with mouths full of questions, "But I haven't heard anything about that! Where? Outside London? Scotland? Foreigners like hiking there—"

"You were not meant to be informed." Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes and opening them with a hard look on his face. "It's all for the Secret Intelligence. I need to find them. It's important."

"Then why aren't you consulting the Service? I'm sure they'll be willing to help."

"They are willing if my brother's ready to be the bait."

_"What?"_

"It's all simple, yet very complex." Murmured the consulting detective more to himself now with eyes glinting as if one reading on his cold fact data, "I could toss my brother to them, save everyone the trouble and save the hostages— its three lives to one— simple mathematics; but I'm overly against it— there, complex. The deal doesn't guarantee his safety. Mycroft doesn't even know the meaning of safety, already exposed to danger the moment he woke up, so he's adapting well. But dealing with actual perpetrators, I don't think he's ready for that mentally, he's bound to get carried away with his new-found care… no, he must not face them on his own. And if my network won't be useful… I need another… but who's my enemy… who should I turn to... without Mycroft…"

And Sherlock was yet again painfully reminded how helpless he was if there was no brother behind his back supporting him. Yet with a grit of teeth, he sat up, face more determined than ever, as he was once again reminded of whom he was now trying to protect.

Greg tried to follow his trail of thought but only managed to understand bits of his soliloquy, "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Help?" Sherlock seemed to awaken from his sudden stupor that he glanced around at the inspector and gave a start. "Yes, I need help, from you and from someone else. I doubt the Secret Service has left any trace or evidences that an abduction happened, but what do you think is the Dark Web for? Start the car we have a place to go."

"Where?" the car's engine roared to life and Greg began pulling out from the parking lot, maneuvering carefully towards the exit into the cool night of the streets where lamps were shining and less vehicles on the road. Sherlock quickly dialed a number upon getting his signal, whilst the Detective Inspector drove on and waiting for the instructions.

"Howard." Sherlock nearly barked on the phone as he heard a sleepy response on the mobile which made his driver look beside him, "Howard, wake up, I know on your station."

"Howard who?" Greg asked with a frown.

"Howard Shilcott, CCTV operator on London Underground, but he's got the basic mastery of the Dark Web. Don't tell him I told you that and you are by no means to arrest him." Sherlock turned to his phone, "Yes, wake up already. It's me. Yes, it's a case why else would I be calling you? I want access to private accounts all over the web, any possibly videos uploaded by any users citing an incident of abduction three to four days ago—particularly Americans—that should narrow it down." Sherlock found the Inspector looking his way every now and then. The car stopped onto a curve after a moment as they waited, the Inspector looking very curious.

"You mean to tell me we're going to hunt down these victims on our own?"

"I couldn't find a better partner aside from John who's busy babysitting."

"He could always leave Rosie with Mrs. Hudson, right?"

"He babysits my brother." Sherlock plastered a wide smile on his face before continuing, "If I have the exact location of where the Americans disappeared, I could trace them along the road the car probably took. It would have been easier with my homeless network since I have eyes on every crowded corner of England. But given the circumstances…" Sherlock heard the voice from the other end that made his eyes widen. "Howard? You found one?  _Where?_ Salisbury? Near Stonehenge? That's great, that's just wonderful."

"Why?"

"I have people there."

"Plenty of Americans there too, that's a tourist spot." Greg put in with another glance at him.

"And how many tourists getting kidnapped have you heard on the news?" Sherlock retorted with a raised eyebrow, "Nothing, and nothing means the Intelligence's work. I've no doubt it's them. Howard, stop yawning, it's important. Send me the file, I'll download it from there. Thank you, mate."

"The Yard needs people like that you know."

"Too bad, Howard doesn't need you." Sherlock took on his phone and began typing, "At the same time… London Homeless network has already been compromised… but for the same thing to happen to Salisbury…" Sherlock's eyes glinted and his face shone in excitement. "This could actually work."

And just when he sent the message to five or so of his Homeless Network out of town, his phone began ringing furiously. With a jolt, Sherlock immediately answered upon seeing his best friend's name on the caller I.D.

"John, what's happening?" the message he received was enough to wipe the triumphant smile he had just achieved.

* * *

**_Part 4_ **

There was a turn on the corridor inside the ever-winding central office of the Cabinet where Lady Smallwood and Mycroft Holmes walked side by side, her in her black overcoat atop her lavender cardigan and white dress with matching cream-colored stilettos, while him in dark pants and suit atop a new collared shirt after they got rid of Sherlock's garments and had it send back to 221B  _together with the spied GPS_  in its pocket.

Mycroft had remained silent when they found it and wondered if his brother knew about his plan but spared further thoughts as he was transferred to another building at break of dawn where he now marveled the path with her. His disable arm remained in its cask courtesy of the nurses who gave him another roundup checkup and painkillers that by then he couldn't feel a single thing.

"You sure you want to do this? Now?" Lady Smallwood asked with a slight glance in his direction.

"Better get it over soon." Mycroft replied, his eyes straight in the empty corridor with its red carpet, gray glass walls till they stopped in front of a black double doors. "I hope I could make use of myself and not have to turn to Sherlock, that'd be embarrassing." He sighed.

"Don't worry." Lady Smallwood raised her chin as the doors were opened for them. "We have a file of your brother's most embarrassing history in room five. If he takes it against you, I'll drop you there."

Mycroft made a mental note to be dropped there anyway when things were done and over it when the door's opened and his eyes widened and he held his breath as the room opened to what seemed to be the gathering of people in black suits, all with papers and folders and monitors at hand. Mycroft looked left to right and found others stopping long enough to gape at him before getting on their way. A few steps and he was already descending down a circular room, full of dozens of male and female agents in their suit and ties, sitting in front of around three monitors each, wearing earpieces and microphones while. Above the heads were also dozens of screens with overwhelming data of their markers and trackers.

Mycroft held his breath as the Lady proceeded to the center of the room, towards a semi group of agents all busy with their own screens while above them the large monitor showed a black dashboard with an empty pane. There were some conversations on it of what Mycroft realized to be terrorists that he understood what it was the he had to do.

"This is  _The Network?"_

"You are the Network," Lady Smallwood pointed out again quietly, "You are a member in each of those open threads and they rely on you for support, information even. We dare not reply to their insinuations, afraid to blow your cover, and we have to make sure we will be saying the right thing. This place has been waiting for you for a long while."

So, it was a critical moment when Mycroft Holmes grasped the ropes of  _The Network_ at last after less than an hour with two silent Secret Service Intelligence briefing him on the updated threads, they also helped him identify parts of the open  _Network._  There he sat observing the string of information appearing on his opened account, hundreds of them all blinking red and yellow from different monitors surrounding him that was catered by different agents, all in different languages he was surprised he could understand without breaking a sweat, and then the central exchange of it all that connected everyone and everything— _him._ He alone had that one name on the screen  _Antarctica_  that had not responded on most mentions.

At the beginning the older Holmes was astonished with the number of online activity of different people simultaneously on his receiving end, all with codes to say, all hints and clues, that an ordinary person may find a trifle. But not Mycroft Holmes. One simple word for him was easily deciphered and there were plenty— _all on dates, all on different places, everything._  It chilled him to the bone when he understood that at the end of the month there would be a tower attack, and that two weeks after that a school from a remote country will be taken, and then there was going to be an ambush of metro lories, and shootings on concerts and all. Mycroft couldn't keep his eyes close even if he wanted to and before he knew it, he was already typing coded messages as well using the people sitting on the semi-circle, sinking himself onto the quicksand that had been long ago his dominion. He stayed there for an hour, watching,  _monitoring,_  since the thread he was after was offline he stayed observing the active ones, wanting to know which thread was going to attack at the latest and was determined to prevent it if he could.

"A pattern that is very obvious…" he murmured with eyes reflecting the screen. "On monthly basis…"

"Yes, sir," replied one of the Secret Service men, "We have monitored the 22nd and 23rd of all the months March to September, given the streak of attacks in the past—"

"Yes, but nothing certain as they are opening new target dates on this board."

The Secret Service men looked at each other grievously. Mycroft didn't give any attention to their exchanged and went on deciphering a code for Spain when Lady Smallwood tapped him on the shoulder. "Your thread's open."

Mycroft looked up to the said thread and true enough, the thread from which the said abductor had signaled  _active._

"That singular thread had never opened of the abduction anywhere else. It must've been working independently on its own." continued the Lady as the older Holmes took a deep breath.

The last message on the board was written in complete English whereas the terrorist had been identified as  _Greek_ because of the pattern in his English usage. In the thread it said they have the foreigners and they would be executed if their target was not surrendered, _referring_  to Mycroft's name that was ever repeated on the screens. He could feel everyone's attention on him now that he was there and were all waiting for his next move. Whether they had the confidence in him or doubt, they never showed it, they were all just there to bid his command, so give it he did with a single nod, feeling his stomach turn and his feet turning cold.

* * *

Sherlock had been massaging his temple ever since John's phone call of Mycroft's disappearance and the sudden discovery of his clothes wrapped neatly in a brown bag in front of their footsteps when the detective checked his signal. The tip of the sun was already breaking away the gloom left by the night, and yet Sherlock could see no light, except to probably barge in the Cabinet Office and demand for his brother—which naturally would be too late, the Secret Service would have done their move by now even with Mycroft's given handicap.

"So, what are we going to do about your brother?" asked Lestrade as they drove back to 221B, aiming to get the pissed Doctor who didn't want to be left behind, "And about that?" he pointed his eyes on the consulting detective's phone because of the last message it received from not only one but three of his Homeless Networks who had given clues of the possible whereabouts of the victims that all pointed in a single direction. It was the same direction that the car spotted on the Salisbury taking three Americans in a dramatic scene of gun point in a camera—two men and one women— took base from the other CCTV footage sent to him by Shilcott before disappearing completely and leaving the car behind. The only other informants were the scattered  _Homeless_  on the streets.

Sherlock stared into space, then brushed his face with his palm and sitting properly. Evidences were clear, he knew his men were on the right track, but there was something stopping him to go further—something to do with the  _complexity_ of making decisions when long ago his next step would be very obvious. The complex emotion which was with his brother.

 _Mycroft with his injury, leading his men and making progress towards danger while he sat there…_ Sherlock gritted his teeth.

"Get John, we'll go to the location. I'll send a message to the Service to keep Mycroft safe. Tell them I've got leads on the Americans." His eyes gleamed and his lips curved down. "Let them distract the leader and negotiate… we'll be attacking from the rear, grab the victims and destroy the terrorist cell. No need for my brother to go through the trouble after all."

"Right." Lestrade checked on his radio and turned it on, "So I'm now officially on duty and uh… lending a helping hand. But mark my words, Sherlock, my men will be right behind us if this lead is solid." And he began giving directions to his men, turning to Sherlock with glinting, excited eyes, "Oh, boy I'm breaking a lot of protocols for you, Sherlock."

Sherlock was already phoning Mycroft's secretary, knowing well his brother would be preoccupied with matters at hand with Lady Smallwood. "Keep it going, Greg. We live for this moment."

It was then and there that the rescue mission began.

* * *

Another hour and the three inside the car found themselves on a remote suburb at the skirts of England with houses set with symmetrical spaces between each other with a large portion mostly of green fields and mountains and open space and tall trees. John was with them with eyes locked on each house, wondering where on earth the captives were at.

"Haven't they given you the actual address?" he asked when gnawing silence and impatience fell on them. He threw a look at the consulting detective who was also frowning in the vicinity, his eyes searching all corners and walls as if he could see inside them, and then grunting and turning on his mobile again. The  _Homeless Network_  had given them three similar names of city and streets with different description and sent one after another. Right now, they were only waiting for that particular house number and it would all be finished.

"This is wrong." He muttered that rendered both Lestrade and John speechless and looking in his direction. Throwing them a glare, he pointed out, "Do you see any of my homeless networks anywhere? I keep telling them to discreetly report to me here for half an hour and no one shows themselves, not even a toe. What's the matter with them?"

"Maybe they're in a compromising position?" John suggested, looking around again and feeling a tinge of worry, "You sure Mycroft's okay?"

"He's safe, his secretary confirms he's inside one of the headquarters dealing with  _The Network_ to reveal more information about themselves."

"But why a suburb?" Lestrade looked to his left to a children's playground, towards a group of men behind three cars, all of which were backup from the local police station with their chief a good friend of his; all men armed and ready for assault but wearing civilian clothes as he had instructed. "This doesn't look like a terrorist to me, it's more like a simple abduction. Are you sure we're on the right spot?"

Sherlock licked his lips and sent a message to the three informants, asking them where they are and which among the houses contains the victims that they spied the culprits brought. No reply. Uneasiness crept on to him as no answer came, and he was seized by a momentary feeling of panic. What if he was wrong? What if this wasn't the correct trail? But he checked those networks and there was no chance for them to be under suspicion, they were never part of the London connection to begin with!

Just as Sherlock was wavering, his mobile sprang to life and on it were two numbers.  _O6._  Their car was parked on number 01 as they all turned to check. Lestrade then quickly went out of the car, same with John whose adrenaline at a rescue mission was rushing in his veins. The D.I was already fast on his feet, motioning the local police men to follow quietly and they followed—the action was afoot—and yet Sherlock did not move from his spot as he stood just outside the car door he just stepped in. Not even when he heard sounds of helicopters coming from above.

It was because the message didn't come alone with the number, there was a signature under it.

All three messages he received had it.

It read  _Phonetic._

* * *

It didn't happen as easy at others thought, but it was fast. Mycroft had engaged the open thread of the terrorist they categorize as  _Prince's Bane_ , for causing such a havoc in connection with the Royal Family. It was Mycroft who chose the name on impulse after an hour of exchange, with nothing really coming out of him regarding the location of the meeting place, or the location of the victims. He was not baiting on them, till finally, Mycroft made an aggressive move and told him they can do the exchange in somewhere populated, where no one can make any hasty move of arrest—in the background Lady Smallwood was already out of sight, arranging the necessary staging once it was called upon, to have their own agents be the population within the specified vicinity to avoid inflicting any casualties to civilians, and make sure no bomb was to be planted  _anywhere._

Mycroft took the risk and said he would go, provided he be given a location. They received one and by then most of the air force was sent on that location. But it was not a specified location, and another discussion of how the address will be completely given once they were face to face. Mycroft too prepared on the meeting which was set in another hour, receiving a warning that he would easily recognize if they sent a fake. With that, the gamble began and the older Holmes was on his way to the meeting place in Brew House at Hampstead Lane, London.

So much has happened after that, going out of the car, locating the culprit at the heart of the Brew House, instructing his men not to touch him till the victims were found, at the same time Mycroft eyeing all other participants, waiters, customers alike to be his own people and finally sitting in front of the terrorist. His safety was secured on the outset, and they have back up plans too, snipers close, him in bullet vest, tracking device and all geared. Yet he couldn't help feeling light headed as he made his way towards the table, wondering if the man was planning—as what they have done in the past—blowing up the whole area once he was there—killing almost everyone. Although some of the expert agents in the vicinity brought bomb detector hidden in their towels and trays, there was no certainty of what would happen next.

A tall, darkened man of forties with a clean-shaven face and clear dark eyes hidden under his baseball cap with interlining letters of S&B sat steadfast across him.

Mycroft easily read his features, his lips parting at what he could read, but the man suddenly passed a white paper on the table without speaking. The older Holmes' eyebrows curt as he reached the paper and saw the final address. Crumpling it and setting it inside his pocket, the older Holmes gently looked at the man. No, this was not the terrorist he was expecting.

"What have they done to your two sons?"

The darkened man's lips trembled and fear that was ever on his face suddenly magnified.

"They took them." He whispered in an effort to hide away his nervousness, "If you don't come with me alone, they'll kill them."

Mycroft stared at the innocent civilian with his heart going with him, all the while his mind razing into a quick solution in which this man would be reunited with his children quickly and found one. Thus, he simply nodded.

"They'll be alright." He said finally as he stood up, confusing most of the agents around who stopped all in their activities to look at him. Eyeing them, he shook his head with a very serious demeanor and said, "Help this man out and his children once I've secured his parting with the criminal. That's our priority."

He then motioned for the man to lead the way, at the same time receiving a message on the phone he had been using under the table and had to smile at the question he received from the sender.

* * *

And to Sherlock who didn't come out of the car, his eyes into space as police flocked both air and land after a complete operation of locating the three Americans under the basement of the empty house number 09, all unharmed and very much alive. Which would be something his  _Homeless Network would not be_  if Sherlock ever sees him again. Because then he had received something extraordinary and only finding it out after the reply he got from the three similar networks:  _I'll explain if we meet again._

Signed, Mycroft.

Then he figured  _Phonetic_  must have been anagram of  _Pinochet. Pinochet who was the former leader of Chile who had executed those who opposed him during his reign._ Who was then connected to Margaret Thatcher, and who was gingerly connected to his brother's position.  _What was Mycroft thinking?_

Without waiting for John and Lestrade, he turned the car around and drove towards where the helicopters had landed in the open field. If Mycroft was in control of sending him the location of the hostages then it could only mean  _he met_  with the terrorist and their demands for how else was he to extract it? It was the only explanation. Losing no time, he hurtled the car onto the field, jump out and gave instructions to the men around who all recognized who he was.

 _"Send me to Mycroft Holmes!"_ he sharply shouted at them amidst the noisy engine as he clambered on one of them.

 _"Sherlock!"_ John was calling, running on towards him with whitegloves, apparently having checked the victims first and was now striding towards him in all haste with no sign of Greg around. "Hey, what's going on? The hostages are already safe—what's happening?"

But Sherlock was waiting for the same answer from the pilot and his assistant who were both wearing their headphones on one ear while the other was exposed to listen. They were exchanging uncertain looks to which Sherlock did not miss.

"What's happened to him?" he spelled for them before he could stop himself, his self-control at its heights while John, who had slid himself beside the consulting detective stared from one person to another.

"Sir," the assistant finally shook his head and said loudly, "We've just received the news—Mr. Holmes never came back from the operation!"

* * *

**-PENULTIMATE-**

**~tbc~**

* * *

**_A/N: AHhhh NOW FOR THE EPILOGUE!_ **

_I am sorry you had to wait for me again!_

_And the most exciting part! *screams*_

_But it shall be the end once and for all~_

_I hope you're all ready for it ;)_

**Thank you for Reading!**


	10. Took a Tumble

***** **The Day My Brother** *****

_**by: WhiteGloves** _

_I'm practically laughing at my own incapability of ending a chapter!_

_But then I was told by good ol epiffanylee there was no need to apologize :D_

_But really, I suck at making chapters shorter!_

_Still thank you for supporting till the almost end! Love you all! Also major WARNING FOR VIOLENCE!!! WARNING TAGS ON!_

_Thank you for reading the not so end of..._

_**The Day My Brother...** _

* * *

**10: Took a Tumble (Not so End)**

* * *

Two hours later, Sherlock and John found themselves in isolation at the waiting room in one of the highest floor of the Cabinet office, with its glass walls already dyed in gold as it reflected sundown and shadows on the corners it could not reach; almost an entire day without any leads to the whereabouts of the older Holmes who had been taken in the heart of London and was never found again after a failed operation. There they sat without speaking, both faces in gloom and no shade of light for they were both facing the doorway and waiting for news.

Sherlock was immediately called back after the rescue of the Americans to face Lady Smallwood who, despite the mishap, had remained composed and had assured Sherlock his brother was going to be found. An assurance delivered by a number of additional police around the clock in all corners of London, checkpoints at all the marked areas where terrorists are believed to be sighted, and a number of busts operations on potential hiding spot for the abducted and warrant of arrests to all the high profiled individuals residing in the city, halting any feigned ignorance on the markers and taking custody of all under their watch to find clues of Mycroft Holmes who seemed to have disappeared on the surface of the earth.

"No trace was found of the vehicle that had taken him." Lady Smallwood began solemnly as she faced the two men who sat opposite her across the wooden table and black chairs, giving her dark looks and unsatisfied expressions as she met them in the same room on the early hours of Mycroft's disappearance. "And no trace of the criminal answers on the Network anymore now that they have who they wanted. But we are doing our best, we have eyes everywhere, all corners are being searched.  _He will be found."_

"Not if you're looking on the wrong corner." Sherlock said mysteriously that left the Lady staring at him with an unreadable expression. He had been in deep thoughts the moment they took off from the scene of the crime in the helicopter. John being a full witness to his best friend's knee-jerk reaction after finding out his brother was taken— Sherlock had fallen silent, and the doctor saw sympathy from the pilot and his crewmate, but John knew that look—the look of Sherlock diving deeply into his mind palace—racing through time and space and trying to connect everything to Mycroft's fate. Within seconds it seemed he was successful as Sherlock gasped from his seat and without a word, had fled towards the crime scene where the Americans were held—like his typical self that caused bewilderment not only to the Doctor but the Detective Inspector. But John had learnt that all Sherlock's actions always had a reason, and this may be one of them. Sherlock had searched the house high and allow, inspected the underground room where they were held. Once he found his clues, he had gotten up, whispered something to Lestrade and went with John to the aircraft looking ominous. This ominous look he now held at the government worker, "One thing I've learned from my brother's job, Lady Smallwood, is that you can  _never_  trust people  _in it._  You really think Mycroft trusted you fully when you worked together?"

John moved his eyes to his best friend with a discomfited expression that slowly turned into dawning comprehension as he pulled his eyes back to the Cabinet Officer with doubt in his eyes. Lady Smallwood was undaunted by his words.

"Trust is vital in our job, but only if it is well placed. But not when he has a reason to arrest me, no, I don't think he did." She answered quietly, full eyes on the younger Holmes, "But if I have proven myself guiltless, that is between us. And whether or not you think you can trust me depends on my sincerity that  _I want him found."_

"The one out of many."

"And you think he  _trusts you?_ " she challenged back, although in John's part, he saw this as some form of retaliation at the former's misgivings. It was then that John recognized if there were two people on earth who could make a proper debate about Mycroft Holmes, it would be these two who knew him the most. And Lady Smallwood would be a formidable opponent. "If your conjecture is base purely on the notion that you are related by blood, then you also fall in the category of  _pain in the ass._ " John gulped while Sherlock was undeterred. "You let him down many times. You have proven yourself lethal enough for him to have you on constant surveillance all the while shouldering the whole country to protect it from _you,_ your enemies and the rest of the world. If he had trusted you, would he have done this?"

Sherlock remained motionless, eyes set on the Lady while John tapped his fingers on his legs. She arched an eyebrow at him and sighed.

"Therefore, this is not a question of  _trust,_  Mr. Holmes, for according to your brother it is but  _a flimsy word for people who wants to end damaged relationships when they are burned by it_. Mycroft Holmes never trusts anyone save himself _._  He relies on others for support, but not enough to hold them responsible. Your brother would really be giving anyone the highest honor if he trusts them with one page of his concern." At that, she looked at John Watson who blinked back at her.

"Well played." Sherlock looked away after the silence, "So saying we can never blame anyone save Mycroft?"

"I never said that. But you would also admit that your brother is not one to lay blame on anyone. You're a pretty good example of that." The two clashed with their sharp eyes till John finally tapped the table with his hand.

"All right, enough of this chitchat, you're all starting to annoy me. Mycroft's gone—what do we do?" John was feeling miffed now, especially after getting pointed out that he was one of the few that  _the Mycroft Holmes_  trusted. He could never understand the grand scale of Mycroft's occupation, only that he has mutual relationship with the older Holmes when it comes to Sherlock. Mycroft may not trust Sherlock, but the man does have a soft spot for his charismatic baby brother.

Lady Smallwood looked on the table, before at Sherlock again. "Look, you have every right to doubt us—"

"I've never done the opposite." Sherlock's eyes shone, the exact time Lady Smallwood took a deep sigh. John had his eyes bounce back and forth, till his eyes too rested on the Lady who had closed her fist on the table as if making up her mind. Till finally, she changed her pace and returned to her distant self.

"Mr. Holmes, be that as it may, I request your full cooperation in  _waiting_  for the approval of your request to have an interview with the victims. Also, Sir Geit from the Private Secretary Office of the Royal family is responsible for the welfare of our visitors and having them taken care of after their ordeal was his priority. I am afraid we are going to have to wait until they are ready."

"She's right." John breathed a sigh beside the consulting who remained silent, "It must not be easy for them."

"I have the Secret Service working tirelessly to retrieve your brother." She said next, "And whether we are working on the wrong end as you suggested, I assure you I will take responsibility that he is found."

Sherlock said nothing after that and the Lady decided it was time for her to go after checking the time. She took leave and left them, promising them news and regular updates. She stopped by the doorway long enough to look at the two again, then sensing that Sherlock Holmes was not planning to say anything anymore, she disappeared. John had automatically turned to the consulting detective.

"You suspect her?"

"Who do you think advised Mycroft on removing my gps?"

"So, she is a suspect?"

"All of them." Sherlock said scathingly as he put the tip of his fingers together with expression dark, "Observe the pattern of Mycroft's disappearances—from the hospital and after that—the lack of security is consistent even though every corner of that operation was supposed to be filled with police. The unidentified get away vehicle that seemed to have been swallowed by the earth, much like the first time when the tourists first disappeared." He put both palms together and planted his lips on his fingers, eyes unblinking and flickering, "No, I don't think I can trust the eyes of the police in this one, John. The biggest conspiracy is that something everyone can see, right in their faces, but fail to grasp because it is a fickle shadow of power-struggle only few can play."

John sat up, alert and pale. "You think… the government is behind this? All of this? Is it no longer any terrorists?"

Sherlock finally gave him a daunting look. "There's a hairline difference, John.  _Mycroft was a terrorist_  by himself, I told you he's the most dangerous man alive. Equipped with brain, authority and man power… and realizing he is  _The Network_ … he's put himself in a position only he could ever achieve.  _Dangerous_ is just the beginning… and when other power-hungry people start realizing that… they will make Magnussen look like an icing on the cake."

"But he's got amnesia! What else would they want with him?"

For the first time that night, Sherlock looked uncertain. His brows arched slowly, his face lost its remaining color and the next thing he had slid his face on his palms and a first time in admitting defeat in a whisper, "I don't know… I don't want to think about it."

John gaped with mouth hanging open, then he blurted out, "What do you mean you don't know?  _Of course you do! Stop being dramatic and do something! Anything!_  If this isn't terrorist then shouldn't we be doing something else?!"

"You haven't been listening—I didn't say they were unconnected to terrorists!" Sherlock snapped, his hands agitatedly waving in the air, his expression cross, "Stop putting a division between both! Mycroft had spent billions on purging out officials with connection to terrorism! Without support, terrorists wouldn't have funding— why do you think Mycroft's become an instant target for terrorists and wanted to eliminate him badly? Because they saw him as a threat not only in counter terrorism but from getting their supply!  _Terrorism wouldn't have happened without powerful insiders to begin with!"_

Sherlock could not remember when he stood up, but he found himself on his feet while the doctor stared up at him with eyes wide full of disbelief. The sun was preparing to sink, creating a hue of gold that turned a red glow, rendering their shadows tall on the opposite wall, the scattered clouds unmoving and colorless.

 _"Are you sure?"_ John found his voice next, his lips drying as he flexed his fists open and close. "But why would our government initiate our country's own attack?"

Sherlock gave a derisive laugh, "I forget how naïve you are sometimes, John. You really are too gullible for this world, might as well put a tag on your head with a label, _I trust humanity forever._  Better yet, put a hashtag on it.  _What about power struggle don't you understand!? Creating an enemy, making people believe there is an enemy— why do you think it's called TERRORism?"_

"Don't lecture me about terrorism, I was a soldier!" John replied with asperity—

 _"Doctor—"_  Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I've seen things in war, Sherlock—don't you even think about forgetting that."

"I haven't forgotten, but you are making light of the roots of war and why we need soldiers to begin with.  _Death for a cause_  is not only the motto of soldiers, but also terrorist. And guess who's behind all of it?"

_"Lives are at stake—why would anyone start something like that on their own!?"_

"I do pity you sometimes," Sherlock mustered and exerted patience as he rumpled his hair, his voice raising, "your brain—as I keep telling you—so simple and no imaginations—but I don't blame you—"

"Oh, stop." John snapped this time, frowning at the obviously upset detective. "Ranting at me won't help you find your brother! But this isn't like you—normally you'd have turned every house down looking for clues—"

" _Why do you think we're here?"_  Sherlock's eyes glinted, "We're going to topple the highest building there is!"

* * *

If getting your head covered up with black sack, getting gagged in the process while your already injured arm was tied behind you was the life of the old Mycroft Holmes, Mycroft right now would have at least prepared himself psychologically and braced himself. But then, he wouldn't have known how to prepare, any knowledge of the old him had gone down the drain when he was first attacked, and any defense for this kind of warfare was unknown to him, all of  _these_ was new to him. So, he was quite scared to be honest, and the throbbing pain on his shoulder was not helping at all. Old Mycroft Holmes would have plenty of assurance to himself, but the old him was plain  _blank_  and he was already nauseated with the sickening pain—all he could think of was the pain. What defense was there left for him? What was he to do?

The moment he was taken, he knew he was drugged immediately upon capture and was shut off on the trunk of a car. That was how he found himself the moment he woke up with a spinning head with cloth all over his face, a gag on his mouth, stuck in the darkness in a small compartment that made his heart skip a beat anxiously. He didn't try knocking on the compartment for his wounded shoulder was stuck under him and he could not move properly without extraneous effect on his painful side. The car drove for hours before he felt the wheels slowed down, then on a full stop it shuddered and was then lifeless. In the darkness, Mycroft laid still, listening attentively to any movements from the outside. There was not even a talk, and everything was still that he thought they may have forgotten him. Then after a few more minutes the sound of the trunk getting opened alerted his ears and he tried to see if there would be any light but there was none.

Without warning he was grabbed roughly on his good shoulder and was pulled up, half dragging him out of the car onto the outside, where his feet nervously tried to find grounds to step on that he tripped plenty of times, his knees weak and buckling under him. There was no exchange of words, but he was pulled, and another man took his other shoulder that sent an electrifying agony all over his body. Nobody cared that his bad shoulder was still in its cask—and Mycroft didn't think of reminding them at all for he knew his position well enough.

A captive.

It was quite hard to manage to think with an extreme pain on the shoulder that was making his eyes watery, especially when they dragged him on a number of stairs. He had went up and down some staircases, wondering if the earth has a hole deep enough to have so much of it. Everything was cold when the floor got even, and that was when someone spoke harshly about why he was not tied. It was there and then that his cask was stripped unkindly, yanked back forcefully that he let out a groan, and was bound tightly with big ropes. Mycroft's whole body shook at the sensation that nearly had him pass out, but he was pushed forward, sending his already throbbing body against the cold stone as he took a tumble, his head aching terribly, his chest heaving in short warm breathes caused by the unremoved sack on his head. His whole body was already soaking wet; and the dense and murky feeling around was not making his heart feel any better. Then he heard chains and felt a cold metallic one clamp on his right ankle. Mycroft didn't move, so absorbed he was to contain the cry of pain already at the tip of his lips. He at least wouldn't give them the satisfaction of his suffering. There he crumpled, his knees about his stomach, stifling and shaking.

As he heard hinges closed and the shutting of the door, Mycroft dreadfully knew it was just the beginning.

* * *

Sherlock slumped back on his chair and buried his face on his palm once more and didn't speak, feeling somewhat restless for some reason as the hours ticked by, darkness all around them as it had been many hours since the sun was gone. Lady Smallwood returned one last time to report about the identified car lost at the edge of England and how it had been empty. John actually expected Sherlock to stand up and demand to see the car, only to find his best friend close his eyes in a fashion that was so unlike him. When he didn't say anything, the Lady offered them some place to stay the night and when the offer was ignored, she gracefully made an exit and promised to see them again first thing in the morning.

That was hours ago and still here was John and Sherlock, waiting with the consulting detective refusing to interact with anyone who came in in between the wait—from the different personnel who delivered them news and food, which remained untouched on the younger Holmes' side. John remained with him, only leaving the room to check on Mrs. Hudson and Rosie. He fell asleep too on one of the couches on the corner and woke up to find Sherlock still on the same position with eyes glinting in the dark. Once he tried to rouse the consultant detective into another conversation in the middle of the night, after taking coffee from the secretary that came in.

"You need to sleep."

"I'm thinking." Sherlock retorted softly. John grinned as he remembered something else.

"Still can't get over the fact that Mycroft was the  _Phonetic_  who controlled your Homeless Network for a while?"

"Only because he wanted to lead me to the Americans when he realized he  _was_  the one manipulating my  _Homeless Network_ in the past." The consulting detective closed his eyes. "I wouldn't put it pass him, he did infiltrate  _The Network._  Compare to it, my Homeless Network is but a speck in the eye. He's become more like himself when he stepped on his old shoes with Smallwood, manipulating people at will."

"You gave him no choice since you shut him in the flat with surveillance all over him. Of course, he's bound to run amok."

For the first time, Sherlock chuckled. "Just when I'm the one acting  _sane_  for the two of us."

"Yeah? I wouldn't call it  _sane_." John kept his eyes at his friend who slowly opened his eyes and met his gaze which made the doctor shrug. "If Mycroft had been in your position, he would've used any means to act rationally and that means to work together like Lady Smallwood said."

"You're saying I'm wrong?"

"I'm saying is… you acted  _human._  Don't blame yourself for choosing what you think is right, that's the Sherlock I know who's never failed me. It's not wrong to shield Mycroft from his responsibilities once in a while. It's a good change."

Sherlock looked away the moment he understood his friend's meaning and John had to half smile and let silence consume them for a while. In John's eyes, it was unfair to say that only Mycroft went on drastic changes after losing his memory. Somehow his pacing has affected Sherlock the most, on almost a parallel level. It made Sherlock more mature but that's what happens to people who find themselves with something they wish to  _protect._

John shook his head and rubbed his tired eyes after half an hour, clocking in that it was half past one in the morning.

"Did you take a tumble? What's taking your  _thinking_ so long? Can't make up your mind if it's the government or the terrorists to destroy first?"

"I'm killing two birds at once." But his tone was dark and the doctor knew his mind was far from the terrorist and government, he has long made a decision about it. All that was left now was his one clue—that one clue to get Mycroft back. But amidst the wait, there was one thing that was ever on his best friend's mind. John fell silent again and only watched his friend with only the lamps on the side illuminating their faces.

"They won't hurt Mycroft, right?"

"I don't know."

"You think the Americans would be able to help?"

A glance from Sherlock told John he had been wrong all along.

_"Who gave you the idea I wanted to talk to the Americans?"_

* * *

The hinges creaked and his door was thrown open.

Icy cold water was splashed on Mycroft's whole body on the wee hours of the night. He let out a groan that was drowned by another splashed, coupled with a few kicks on his stomach with the last one sending him back viciously that set his back hitting the opposite wall, his breath almost getting knocked out of him. He crumpled in pain and coughed incessantly, his body burning anew with taste of blood on his lips. Then out of nowhere, he heard steps come close to him that all he could do was bite on his gag as he felt hands clawed on his injured shoulder and grabbed him—unchained his ankle and then dragged him outside, up on to the stones steps with the worst head ache and pain all over his surprised body.

Just when he thought the stones wouldn't stop knocking on his beaten feet, he felt the ground go steady and he was lead into the light. Something outside his veiled sight seared with light and the next thing he knew he was walking on a carpeted floor. Directed towards left and right, it was moments before he was pushed on a wooden chair where the air-conditioning was better on his skin. Trying his best to sat straight as he felt company was around him, he took a deep breathe, exactly as someone grabbed the tip of the sack on his head and pulled it up swiftly, showering his eyes with blinding light and letting cool breeze touch his otherwise burning cheeks. They took his gag too, making him lick his lips and taste fresh blood.

It took a moment for Mycroft to adjust, as the pain kept nagging on his flesh, his heart pounding in its position, then finally seeing that he was surrounded with five men at most, all wearing black suits and ties. The older Holmes looked left to right and saw a large room with tall windows hidden behind long red curtains. He was in the middle of it all, with a small table in front of him. At the end of the room, a large table was positioned with books, monitor, tall shelves on the wall with hundreds of hardbound books, a gorgeous chandelier at the top of their heads and old paintings from the renaissance age. A tall man was sitting comfortably on the couch with grey thinning hair on his head was easily recognized as tonight's villain. He was the leader; his body posture had said so. He was much older than Mycroft, but the older Holmes knew who he was. He had studied everything about the terrorist case at hand and had seen this man's hand in all of them. Whether they knew each other personally or not remained to be seen, but Mycroft found something deep within him that was different from his earlier fear. It was  _anger._

This was a government official. This man was supposedly working with him for the benefit of the greater many. A man positioned by the Commonwealth to abide the rules of their land.  _Now nothing but a traitor!_

"Mr. Holmes," said the older man with his blue eyes twinkling triumphantly, and though he may sound delighted, there was something about a hidden flicker in his eyes that set Mycroft on the edge. "We've met again. Who would have thought it would be under these dangerous circumstances?"

Mycroft remained still, eyes boring on his captor who smiled at his reaction, the edge of his white moustache tipping up in his amusement, his smile not reaching his eyes. He was simply having fun and Mycroft, still not sure of this man's goal, ogled at the old man with some apprehension. There was something sadistic in those blue eyes, something was off with the man from the beginning.

"Oh, where are my manners." he said articulately, standing up and heading towards Mycroft's table and stopping just close enough opposite him, the delight in his cold eyes unconcealable, "I heard you have had an amnesia? It must be so disorienting to find yourself in such a position when you remember nothing at all? Not even me? Isn't that convenient? Your newly found disability might just be able to save you. You can thank me later for that attack." Mycroft said nothing, his eyes seeing everything from the golden clip on the man's tie and the golden signet ring on his finger as he pulled a chair near him and sat opposite the older Holmes, "There is no reason to hide facts, isn't it, Mr. Holmes? I let you see me, I let you in my house not because I'm confident of my security, but because I don't plan of letting you out at all."

And Mycroft believed him as he gave the man a hard look, his perspiration already mounting on his wet face, his whole body cold and shivering but nothing could make his soul quiver than this man's words. Yes, this was a man who's known the works of politics from the outset. An old man that had grown so much with such power he believed everything was under his control. Someone who delights at the thought of eliminating opponents on daily basis…  _a real politician._

Mycroft pressed his lips and merely stared at him, sensing that this was not going to end very nicely for him. What was it that he saw under the profile of the old man when he was browsing through them?  _Necessary evil?_  Looking at the man now he could see  _evil_ , but necessary?

When the old man recognized the uncertainty that clouded Mycroft's countenance, he explained in such a manner as if entertaining a guest to one of his most enthralling stories, "Don't give me that look, I do not plan on killing you… no, as a matter of fact, you just became my biggest advantage. I know all of your endeavors. You've been a prominent figure in the government ever since you came. You think I didn't notice your rise to power, did you? But you've become troublesome for some time now and I decided, if I could not have you to side with me, might as well get rid of you all together. It seems unfair that you only get to have such latent power over everything.  _The power I ever wanted_."

The older Holmes sat in his full height, his unfriendly eyes set upon the visage of the old man who had been so wrapped up by his hunger for power that he resorted on lowly crimes. If the government was to be lead by people like this who could not control their thirst for power, what then of its people?

"I am simply doing my best to serve the country as I see fit." he said simply, reverting to his calm self and surprising even him as he did his best to act  _himself_ , "The power on my hands are not meant for the kinds of you."

Richard's blue eyes flickered. "I see. So even with your…  _amnesia…_  you still refuse my offer? I thought this would be easier… Well,  _look_  at you, all wet and cold… hurt even. It doesn't need to stay like that. We don't need to make our relationship like this, Mr. Holmes—Mycroft? Can I call you Mycroft? Call me Richard if you will." When Mycroft didn't reply to this engagement, the old man shrugged his shoulders and leaned back on his chair casually, but his eyes were unhappy. "Look, no one in this room likes to hurt you… and I expect your smart enough recognize the position you are in?"

"I'm in a terrorist's house, obviously." Mycroft couldn't help himself that caused the old man to stop and nod.

"True." In a blink of an eye, Richard had leaned forwards the table, making Mycroft move back an inch to keep his flushed face from knocking his own. And the old man said with some vigor, with some jubilance that he was so sure of himself, "But I also know something about you…  _You are The Network."_

Mycroft didn't make any motion to confirm this nor deny it at all which only brought grin on the old man's face.

"You control the motion of  _terrorism_  in half the sphere of the world. You are the _supreme terrorist,_  as I have been told by many of my connections. With your talent, Mycroft Holmes, I could govern the entire world without them knowing,  _only in the shadows_. All the world governments will be under my mercy—and you, my boy is the only one capable of that. Work for me. I will give you anything you need. I've known about your existence behind the government even before that Jim Moriarty fiasco. The shadow man hiding behind the image of  _M._  To think that the fearsome foe governing all government was a simple man from the Cabinet office whom I've shared meetings from time to time. I had planned to get rid of you when I realized what you truly are. You weren't meant to survive, you know. But here we are."

Mycroft knew it was coming out of him, and he was right because he was loathed not to say it out loud just to spite the old man— "And if I say  _no_?"

All the color in the old man's face was drained by his simple words, and Mycroft could just imagine how his hopes and aspirations came tumbling off the cliff which was to his satisfaction. The next thing a loud snap was heard as the government official slapped Mycroft's face so hard it nearly broke his neck. A jolt forward, and he found himself nearly strangled as Richard closed his long, bony fingers on his collar and pulled him up to his face, his blue eyes no more shiny but wild and thundering.

 _"It is not for you to decide._ " He hissed with malice, his expression twisted and vile, "No one will ever find you here. No one expects you to be under my very house, you are a prisoner. No one knows who you are anyway, you've been working in the shadows and has completely removed your presence from the cycle of those who will be missed. No one's going to be looking for you. Work for me and I shall give you a fair trade."

Despite the new scorching sensation on his beaten cheek and the fresh blood sliding on his chin, Mycroft smiled.

"I'd rather die than work for leeching mongrels like you."

Darkness veiled the blue eyes, and Mycroft was thrown back into the arms of his guards.

"We'll see about that." Richard was no more his exuberant self, but there was still his twisted smile, "Throw him in the dungeons and make sure he changes his mind by morning."

They began dragging Mycroft who had lost his strength at how his injured shoulder was being handled. When he looked back as they exited by the door, he found Richard talking to one of the guards as he wiped his hands with a white cloth, eyes of daggers to the henchman who was obviously the man who had tortured Mycroft because of his soaked pants and sleeves, and told him eerily:

_"Break him."_

* * *

"Sherlock…  _Sherlock!"_

John tried to grab his best friend back by the shoulder but the consulting detective merely brushed him away as they strode in the corridor the first thing in the morning as agents filled the corridor carrying folders and briefcases. Sherlock paid them no heed as some of them clearly recognized him and his small companion, wading through uniformed people of black suits and making their way to the room pointed by their latest sender of message. The person they have been waiting for has arrived.

"Sherlock, wait. You mean to say the victim you're after is the guy who had switched with Mycroft on his operation? The guy who had sons taken from him?"

"Yes. That's why I said Mycroft wasn't ready for this job." Sherlock said as he dodged people blocking his way, "Awakening from amnesia, he's like a walking instinct of human care in his system like it's been let loose."

"In short, he's become a real human?"

"No, my brother became an  _idiot_." Sherlock snapped. "You can't work in the government if you're easily manipulated by your canine emotions, John." The room they were looking for was just around the corner and the consulting detective made haste, leaving the doctor on his wake.

"Hey—wait!" John called again but too late, as the consulting detective found the door the were aiming for and shot towards it, even the guards standing outside failed to stop him—

"I've waited long enough." Sherlock announced brusquely as the door opened to a white walled room with one side of glass window at the far corner. A long table was set up on the table and on it were five people, one being Lady Smallwood, one her secretary, and three were a tall, darkened man with two children on either side of him. They all looked up the moment the consulting detective came in with alert eyes, and when John had followed behind, he could already hear Lady Smallwood making an introduction.

"Mr. Finn, I believe you know Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective. Also, the younger brother of Mycroft Holmes."

Mr. Finn looked up full of anticipation at Sherlock who remained standing near the edge of the table, eyes transfixed at the man whom he heard was the reason Mycroft abandoned all protocols for his safety for the safety of this man's children. His eyes then fell on the young boys gawking up at him like they've never seen anyone so tall and so intriguing. Sherlock blinked and turned his eyes back on the father who quickly drew his attention.

"You are Sherlock Holmes?"

"He doesn't know you." John muttered in spite of himself but Sherlock had turned and sat on the chair opposite him.

"Yes."

"He has given a complete account of the abduction of his children from the moment they were taken in their school to the van that held him hostage till Mycroft arrived," Lady Smallwood made clear as she nodded at the boys, "If you want to read the whole thing, here are the documents—"

But nobody paid her heed as Sherlock saw Mr. Finn's eyes were intent on him.

"I have something for you." And he proceeded on rummaging something inside his pockets. Sherlock exchanged looks with John while Lady Smallwood was looking mildly curious too, "Your brother requested that I give it to you before we made the trade for my sons. He hastily made it from the paper I gave him where the address of the Americans was found. I hope it helps in finding him."

He placed something on the table, it was a small, crumpled paper with one word in it. Sherlock barely showed any emotion but John observed the sparkle on his eyes when he reached for the tiny paper and read its content.

_"Pinochet."_

"I don't know what that means." Mr. Finn admitted with a sigh but his own opinion had no effect on the other people within the vicinity. For one thing, Lady Smallwood had found Sherlock Holmes looking at her as he saw that she  _too_  recognized its meaning and the hard features that etched her face only confirmed Sherlock's suspicion.

* * *

Mycroft could not remember the last time he was left alone, but he would give anything for it. The moment he was returned to his cell, he was immediately beaten by six brutal feet, all directed on his body and he couldn't protect himself for his arms were tightly bound behind him—

Each kick was tearing his insides that had gone numb with pain, his head pounding on all sides. He wanted to get away from their reach, to shy away at the farthest corner but his back was plastered on the wall, his feet chained to the ground. He coughed blood plenty of times and it was returned by another splash of cold water on his face till he was soaking with perspiration, blood and dirty water. They were relentless, stopping only to check if he was still breathing which he wished he wasn't. He wished everything about him was numb, wished that the spikes of pain that would come searing from everywhere would just go, but they never stopped coming.

It came to a point where Mycroft was only praying that everything was over. His head was aching terribly still and the assault on his body was too much that rendered his unconscious. The next time he woke up, another bolt of pain had shot through his shoulder as someone had carelessly grabbed his injured shoulder, dragged him into the light where he saw, behind his bruised eyes, that his captor in his expensive blue suit was standing at the bottom of the stairs with a wide smile on his lips. Mycroft was made to kneel in front of him, his breathings uneven as dizziness hit him.

"Have I come now to hear a positive answer?" came the man's jolly voice. "Have we come now to realize who holds absolute power, Mycroft?"

Mycroft had no strength to look him in the eye, let alone have any tiring exchange. But he did see that the man was wearing such shiny black shoes that sparkled under the lone lamp above his head. Feeling much distaste that Richard thought he would break easily after mere hours, he mustered his energy and spat blood on the man's shoes.

Rage met his action and he was drove to the ground, the old man's feet digging on his injured shoulder that he let out a cry of pain, his eyes blurring and before he knew it everything had turned dark.

* * *

" _Pinochet_ is a code word for the capture of  _government officials._ " Lady Smallwood explained when her secretary had taken the Finns outside and she was left with John and Sherlock in the room, "It has been used by Mycroft many times as a final cue to anyone in the government who has affiliation with terrorist. An official who would received this code knows automatically that he had been caught in the net and will be subjected to answer in the Cabinet hearing. It is an official's worst nightmare, but then no one knows of this word except Mycroft, Sir Edwin and myself. Only those connected in the Network knows it means  _attack_  but once uttered outside, or upon a single message, its meaning is for Mycroft alone. If your brother makes use of this code and gave it to you as a final clue, then it only means he is certain that someone in the government is behind the atrocities in the past. What more, someone working closely with terrorists' activities, which would mean the Cabinet, Department of Defense and Home Secretary." She lowered her eyes, "I must speak with Sir Edwin regarding this progress."

"But how come Mycroft knows that?" John was itching to know.

"He's read his files." Lady Smallwood remarked with eyebrows raising, "How long do you think it took him to master  _The Network_  and finish all volumes of our cases for the past five years?"

"So, three Departments?" Sherlock said, almost at once as he eyed her, "How vulnerable is the Cabinet?"

"After the fiasco with my… secretary," she cleared her throat but John merely glanced away, "We have been very vigilant with the people we let in our meetings. No one in the Cabinet is bound to be a traitor now. Sir Edwin has been gone for a while now, he's been with the Royal family in the absence of Mycroft and been dealing with other officials."

"Department of Defense and the Home Secretary then." John piped to clear the atmosphere, exactly as Lady Smallwood nodded and they heard the door's knob was opened.

"Just in time then, for he's arrived with the Americans. I told you he wouldn't let them see anyone until they are perfectly capable of calming down."

John and Sherlock both turned as the door swung open, and there came another man, leading three Americans behind him. He was an old man of sixties with thinning white hair and dull blue eyes, matched on his blue three-piece suit and shiny black shoes. He came in with a huge smile on his lips, the golden clip on his tie flashing at the lamp light from the ceiling. Sherlock saw him come and watched as his eyes fell to all of them as if a champion of the generation. He was one of those senior politicians that demands authority, yet behind all of that, Sherlock couldn't be mistaken.

_A wolf beneath a sheep's clothing._

* * *

**-LAST TO BE CONTINUED-**

**~I PROMISE~**

* * *

**_A/N: AHhhh AHHHHhhh ahhhh!_ **

_Never mind me always adding chapters >_<_

_Let this be the last one!_

**Thank you for Reading!**


	11. Began the End

***** **The Day My Brother** *****

_**by: WhiteGloves** _

_Warning flags for violence and another flag as real WARNING!_

_**The Day My Brother...** _

* * *

**11: Began the End Part 1 of 2**

* * *

_Open your eyes. See._

Sherlock distinctly heard Mycroft's nagging voice commanding him from somewhere in his mind palace to pay attention, but even without his brother's resident voice telling him,  _he already knew._ The elementary ways of finding the old man's bad habit of drinking and gambling on his wrist, left handedness, preference to tobacco on his fingers, dislike for both animals and children on his chest but penchant for female companionship on posture were all too obvious.

But it wasn't the reason why Mycroft was berating him with a smirk on his face.

Challenged, Sherlock  _looked._ And then had one of those massive premonitions the moment he focused his eyes on the senior politician whose golden clip flickered under the ceiling lights distractingly, while his shoes made an almost identical clip-clopping sound of Lady Smallwood's. It was like seeing somebody for the first time in a crowd with everything about him just standing out, like walking amidst the dark in a spotlight with warnings flaring around because everything about him was _peculiar_. That was how Sherlock saw him and it screamed for his attention. It was much more than the man's poisonous smile that hid under his quivering white thin moustache that spoke of his potential for evil, or his confident gait and extreme self-assurance that he was entitled to everything. It was not his shoulders reflecting aggressiveness, and not even his blue eyes that glinted like that of a fiend with many secrets.

No, it was not the man's features that brought attention to the consulting detective even when most politician's presence would appall him.

It was _'what'_ was on his hands and _'what'_ was on his shoes _._

The old man who was a creature of habit had done his general practice of disinfecting his hands recently enough to make his hands appear perfectly clean to normal eyes. But not to the keen ones like that of Sherlock Holmes. With eyes of a hawk, Sherlock had noticed dark traces on the man's fingers—tiny and merely dots they were—but its dried redness was only too familiar with him. Him, who had studied the morphology of drying blood, its drying stages of coagulation, gelation and desiccations, its difference to those of healthy patients to those unhealthy ones that he could actually tell the exact minutes and seconds since the blood dried. How many blood drops have he seen under his microscope, inside his refrigerator and on dead men's bodies?

If these weren't suggestions of his hands on a crime and abuse, it was nothing to the screaming prints on the old man's otherwise shining shoes. Sherlock had lowered his eyes the second the old man had stepped in and saw the blur paint of something other than shoe shiner that had been wiped away. Something different than mere water, not even the texture of mud. It was something remarkable that Sherlock knew only he could recognize.

_More blood._

And as if this wasn't enough, the side of his shoes, even underneath it, Sherlock was sure there were much sign of dried redness to see. What did he do, stepped on the blood trails of his lackey's poor victim? But that wouldn't have reached the top of his shoes unless… His eyes remained fixed at the shoes when Lady Smallwood called his attention to the newcomers.

"Sherlock Holmes, I believe you know Sir Richard Geit—"

"Home Secretary, obvious." Sherlock cut in, eyes on the man's golden clip.

Lady Smallwood wasn't fazed, "He's been personally appointed to assist our foreign visitors ever since they came here."

It was all Sherlock needed as the final straw to meet the man in the eye. The blue eyes bore on him curiously as the Lady then introduced the consulting detective and the doctor but before he could speak—

 _"Honi Soit qui mal y pense."_ Sherlock announced in fluent French, everyone staring at him, stunned. Turning to his best friend with an arched eyebrow, "Are you aware, John, that in contemporary French, this phrase means there is a presence of hidden agendas or conflicts of interest at hand?"

John just stared at him dumbfounded, so Sherlock averted his sharp eyes to the Home Secretary.

"Sherlock Holmes?" he said as he held out a hand which Sherlock did not take. John was mainly used to these eccentricities that he merely gave a nod and took his hand instead, introducing himself in the process. But Sir Richard was eyeing the younger Holmes with mild interest, saying, "London's most exclusive Consulting Detective? Not a relative of Mycroft Holmes from the Cabinet Office?"

"The very same." Lady Smallwood replied with some meaning in her tone while Sherlock had locked on the old man for something in the sudden smile that twitched under his moustache concerned the detective greatly and his suspicion grew.

"I haven't had any contacts with Holmes since the bombing except the news he survived and got amnesia." Sir Richard looked so devastated and sympathetic, his eyes wide, his head shaking, "I wasn't even able to visit because of the disappearance of our foreign friends. And I was busy with Home Secretary duties—"

"I just saw you on the news." John suddenly blurted beside Sherlock, drawing attention to himself as he felt his best friend becoming alarmingly tensed beside him, "You just had a public interview about counter-terrorism strategies after the recent bombing in Central London on Mycroft's… well, I think it was quite… informative."

The old man beamed with ego pouring. "Well, the public deserves to know that they are in good hands and our government is doing its best to protect them." He looked back at the Americans who nodded and smiled at him, all looking grateful and easy. The Americans all looked in good health and had exchanged pleasantries with John whom they recognized to have helped them on their rescue. The atmosphere was pretty much amicable but it did not last.

"I think it was poor and had the opposite effect." Came Sherlock's sudden deep, drawling dark voice. Everyone looked at him in an awkward surprised, aware now of the gloom the hid behind the consulting detective's dark expression.

"I beg your pardon?" Sir Richard could hardly believe his ears as he stared at Sherlock again who met his eyes challengingly and even stepped forward, his voice icy.

"You seem oblivious to the error you made. Haven't you learned that the first lesson in counter-terrorism is to  _not overreact and overexaggerate?_  You told the public our country was in critical level of highly getting attacked. You just fed the terrorist what they wanted— _fame._  That the moment their name is mentioned, everybody would snap in attention and panic. You let them take control by widely letting the world know of the deployed SAS in the field, ten thousand troops on standby, helicopters ready to fly like comets to the next incident and millions of pounds for counter-terrorism plans. The horror of the deed which should have been repressed to avoid  _fear_ of its citizens  _has_  been magnified by the government's silly action which could have been done in silence. You gave terrorist the power to terrorize the people, which is only favorable to the terrorist."

Everyone had fallen silent and gawked at the consulting detective with mouths hanging open, even John. Lady Smallwood had cleared her throat, looking pretty much uncomfortable but her thick eyebrows still up in the air in amusement while Sir Richard remained staring at Sherlock with round eyes and reddening ears.

"It was part of protocol, my boy, what're you—?"

"I don't blame you." Sherlock suddenly said earnestly with face set, "I knew in the absence of my brother, this government would suffer its lack of common sense."

"Indeed?" the old man whispered and John swore he saw Sir Richard's nostril flare, "Well, for somebody in the Cabinet office, he's always been given too much credit and reputation for other things he did in the dark."

"I'm surprised you know." Sherlock retorted without delay, "That my brother  _works_  in the dark."

"Don't we all?" the old man frowned now as he looked Sherlock from head to foot before averting his eyes to Lady Smallwood seemingly waiting for her support, "We all have out trade secrets in the government, surely I can assume he has one or two?"

"No matter the trade he's been doing, Mycroft Holmes is already an unsung hero who needs to be found." The Lady said simply that received a favorable glance from the younger Holmes. Sir Richard glared at them both, unmindful now of his foreign visitors, his white knuckles appearing as he closed his hands; but when he remembered the Americans, he hastily smiled at them before turning to the three in front of him as he tried to collect his composure.

"Well, I don't doubt now you'll find Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes? Oh, brothers I remember. I couldn't agree more with you, Elizabeth. The terrorists took much in its hands by taking him and I would not give them the satisfaction of keeping one of our own a hostage."

"You seem certain it was the terrorists." Sherlock said dully.

"Who else?" he replied, blinking, "That is why I hope he can be found. He's been gone a long time, goodness knows what he's been going through." There was a small twitch on his mustache again that Sherlock saw, "I hope you all the best, and the force all the best. I hope he gets to be found immediately, his right arm isn't at all in favor of his condition. And it was very noble of him, very noble to save those children, what he did. I knew he was always proper gentleman doing his job best. Aren't you the one who assisted in locating our guests?"

"Mycroft was behind the discovery," John said quietly, frowning at his best friend who stood as a rock beside him, "We were merely set out to follow his instructions to the last letter; he's been the brain of the operation."

"Oh, what a man. Always the Machiavellian, isn't he? Well, our guests couldn't thank him enough. Do you have any questions for them, that's the whole purpose of bringing them here, isn't it?"

John glanced at Sherlock who had taken a deep breathe all of a sudden, as if emerging from some deep place only he could understand. The doctor stared at him, all too familiar with his quirks and expressions—he knew his friend was on to something. He looked back at Sir Richard who seemed plain enough for him and wondered if Sherlock found something—aside from his usual loathing of politicians and their too-well-sat bottoms. The old man was an average official, the type Sherlock hated, so it was possible his best friend was finding more faults and insults he would be sharing with him later. When the two fell in an unexpected silence, Lady Smallwood cleared his throat, exchanged knowing looks at the doctor who got heard her cue, before she shook her head and put her hands together.

"I think that's about it." To the foreigners, she did not even bat an eyelid. "I hope you have a safe trip home."

Sir Richard clapped his big hands. "Splendid. Now, lady and gentlemen, I shall now be escorting them back to Royal guest house—" he had begun motioning for his guests to go back to the door, silence already falling, when someone spoke behind him—

" _How did you know_?" Sherlock's voice was low and deep.

The whole room dropped into another ear-splitting silence as eyes turned to the detective.

"Sherlock?" John called in apprehension, sensing something forbidding in his best friend's tone. Sherlock was now staring wide eye at the Home Secretary who had almost stepped out of the room but managed to hear him and turned slightly back.

"I'm sorry?"

"How did you know he's got an injured right arm?"

Both Lady Smallwood and John threw quick looks at the old man who remained rooted on the spot while Sherlock advanced on him slowly, his eyes like of a wolf ready to pounce and unwilling to break the connection with their eyes, "You said you never visited him and only heard of his amnesia… so how did you know it was the right…  _how exactly did you know?"_

"I heard it from someone, where else?" Sir Richard had fully turned his body back at them with anger rising in his voice, "There are many ways I can achieve that information when I want too—Mr. Holmes isn't the only one—wait what are you implying?"

But Sherlock was upon him, till Sir Richard found himself suddenly nose to nose with the younger Holmes who took a few strides to reach him, making the Home Secretary abruptly step back and stare at the glinting dark eyes of the young man. Behind him, John was on his feet with hands closed while Lady Smallwood watched them attentively.

"He left a message." Sherlock suddenly whispered.

"Oh…" Sir Richard's eyebrows furrowed, as he was a little taller than Sherlock, he had to look down a little while maintaining his chin a little high up, "A message?" he paused at the disturbing fixation of Sherlock Holmes, "That is— uh, what—?"

Sherlock had uttered the word—the word meaningful only those within the Networks use to catch officials who dab in connection with terrorists—and the reaction of the old man was too distinct that even Lady Smallwood saw his horror.

In a flick of his wrist, Sherlock easily overpowered the old man and pinned him with his face on the wall, his left hand jerked back, grinding his teeth at the unprecedented assault. John was behind Sherlock in an instant, surprised with everything that had transpired right before his eyes while the foreigners all looked back, shock. If he had questions, he wasn't alone; Lady Smallwood's lips had thinned the moment she recognized Sherlock's suspicion and was on her phone immediately.

 _"What are you doing!? This is an outrage!"_ Sir Richard screamed while Sherlock kept him where he was, the Americans left staring by the doorway who were then met by the hurrying secretary while John was still in awe.

"Where is my brother?" Sherlock asked quietly and the anger resonating in his voice which something John hadn't heard in a while. " _What have you done with him!?"_

* * *

Mycroft was conscious, though he was mostly daze and trying hard not to fall asleep despite the demand of his overly beaten body. His head was aching terribly, and it was all he could do not to cry out at the pounding each time he moved his eyes. It had been hours since his encounter with the man who held him prisoner. It had been awhile too since he was hurt or beaten by his two guards who stayed in the proximity of his room's doorway, both keeping a close watch. He had woken up half an hour ago feeling as if a boulder was dropped on his body, leaving it beyond the meaning of pain. His injury was at its worst as it was both raw and numb, while every corner of his body was stinging. He tried moving the said arm but to no avail and knew he was going to lose it anyway, granted he survives his ordeal now. The thought of freedom hadn't escaped him, although he was shaken at the revelation that he was to be kept prisoner for a lifetime by some old politician whose ambition for world domination was palpable. Abduction was nothing new to him with Sherlock trying not once but twice to get the best of him. It seemed like a game now that Mycroft thought about it. Sherlock had probably wondered if his older brother could recognize his actions despite having amnesia and was half pleased every time he was thwarted by his betterer. It was why he never looked apologetic.  _Cheeky younger sibling._  He wondered what Sherlock must be doing now. He wondered if he was with Lady Smallwood already and trying to locate him, wondering if they have the means to uncover his soon dead body underneath the ground…

Or maybe he doesn't die and will have time to explain to Sherlock about his  _Homeless Network._

To be fair, Mycroft only realized he was able to control Sherlock's network when he accessed his phone and found the old Mycroft was part of it, calling himself  _Phonetic._ He thought Phonetic was a good touch, having blended  _phone_ and  _ethics_  which was an irony for tapping on his brother's business. Lady Smallwood then gently reminded him of the code word behind Phonetic which Mycroft found was  _smart._ And Sherlock didn't catch on that?

Mycroft half smiled at the face Sherlock could make once he realized what his older brother had done. Sherlock seemed to be the type whose always up to the challenge and with that kind of attitude, it was impossible to cancel out the idea of sibling rivalry. Indeed, it made Mycroft curious of the relationship Sherlock had with his former self. Were they close? Did they fight? Were they the best of companions or the worst? Sherlock didn't seem to hate him. In fact, it was entirely the opposite as his brother had done nothing but to protect him and keep him alive.

Yet, as he sat there, eyes unblinking at his two tormentors who was visible because of the four lamps finally lit in all corners of the room, Mycroft reminded himself that without coordination to the man behind this ordeal he was in, it was just possible that he will finally meet his end.

He had made a decision  _not_ to be intimidated by physical pain or be used as a tool against his principles. He had survived an entire blowing up of an office, no damage to himself now could change his mind. He could understand why he was a target for conspiracy plot, why he was an object of envy and resentment by his lesser peers; finding out his real position in the government with fresh taste of power on the few hours he spent with the British Secret Service, all the information he could access in a singled nod, all secrets and details he was able to get hold on to—  _everything_ that would make other intelligence office flock down to Britain just to get hold of—it was all in his hands. To be accurate— _in his head._ No other man could be a target in an  _intelligence war_  except him—even he would compete for himself. He knew now that he was an important man, so important that Great Britain was resting on his wounded shoulders. It was why Sherlock kept telling him to keep a low profile, Sherlock knew the dangers of his older brother's position and the numerous enemies that could be targeting him both from inside and outside the government. That was why Sherlock kept insisting on having the  _smart choice._  Apparently, the old him was an expert while the new him was nothing short of a blunderer who let himself get caught without second thoughts.

Mycroft sighed.

He had found a comfortable sitting position in the middle of the dank room, his sore, sweaty back on to the cold wall, his knees buckled near his breast, his left forearm resting on left knee cap while his right hand lay limply on his side. He was breathing easily now that he found a way to rest, even his damp clothes from the numerous bucket of water was helping to cool his already burning skin. Fever was unpreventable now, it was making the side of his eyes feel hot. He wished the old crook wouldn't return soon from where he came from, else he would succumb to another hours of oblivion. He just wished for peace to continue. And sick Mycroft sat pondering his options.

There was no way to change anything that happened since then, and instead of berating himself further, he focused on two things that his fevered mind had been thinking of: one was to not cause trouble to the country he had served for many years by not allowing anyone to control him and two  _to escape._ And by escaping, he didn't mean reckless grabbing of guns and shooting everyone about like the archetype James Bond. No, it was much simpler and only something he could do. Nothing he could not achieve.

_Be Mycroft Holmes._

He had been observing his captors for quite a while now and had formed some sort of conclusions of his own. Both men were sitting on two chairs on each side of his door,  _watching him,_ in the most relaxed manner, most habitual position they can be. Mycroft had been waiting for that— the moment they had both lowered pretenses and act like  _themselves._

It was quite easy for him to read them who were both sitting with crossed legs. It was an innate talent he had tried to master ever since he woke up from his hospital bed. The unnatural skill of deciphering people with their appearance, actions, behaviors _—_ their personality as a whole _that which permits a prediction of what a person will do in a given situation._  Mycroft may have forgotten who he was, but his knowledge was still vast and still largely advance than anyone. He had been watching them intensely ever since they left him alone. They were not too hard to discover, truthfully, Mycroft was a bit surprised by what he found. But then, working for the fourth most powerful position in the government, it all made sense. A Home Secretary was of course,  _a British Cabinet level position._ How he realized the old man's position was all in his golden clip where the Home Office's motto was engraved, although he only saw the part of the French Maxim  _Honi Soit Qui Mal Y Pense._

_Evil be to him that evil thinks._

Mycroft couldn't help another smirk at the irony of it all for contemporary French translation has it differently. No matter…

The two men who were both dressed in black suit but with carriage so different like that of tea and coffee were exhibit A and exhibit B in his eyes; one who had clean-cut blonde hair was thoroughly fixed from his tie to his shoelace while the secondary tall man who was sporting a black hair was  _neat_. Very neat. Both of them were tall and well-built and it was obvious they attended training for such task. Mycroft never doubted they were from the Secret Service with background from SF for the Home Office also had access to MI5 and MI6. Both men were grim in nature, doing less talk and more on the mission at hand. In short,  _professionals._

British Secret Service men were always hard to find faults, for one— Mycroft was certain the Service only recruited smart and talented people. To have them as his adversary now was not to the older Holmes' advantage. Yet… there was always a flaw in the system… and this system, Mycroft was prepared to challenge.

Blinking away drowsiness that brought a dangerous glint on his feverish eyes, Mycroft Holmes began. It was now or never and perish.

"Gentlemen." His throat was too dry but he was able to stir their interest as they looked back at him. He stared at them impassively. "I couldn't help but ask myself, in a world of espionage that we all live in…  _which one of you is the spy?"_ It was incredible how both men sat straighter in their seat, half glancing at each other with uncertainty, but it was nothing Mycroft didn't expect and brought confidence to his undefeated soul.

"Spy?" growled the man with the dark hair and Mycroft continued.

"Both of you are  _English men,_ which means you are safe from the rigorous watch and surveillance of our country for likely foreign spies. Yet, recruited  _assets_  have always been a problem. You," he turned to the black-haired man, "have been hands and feet all over me… doing as you see fit to  _break me._  Your exact means of torture, your military command… your prim callousness suggests training in Special Forces, so what are you doing working for such an underhanded man when you could be a hero of the country? Then I spied your hand… they are firm but scarred. And when your previous occupation was a sniper in the Special Forces, it is likely they had to replace you when you got injured. I saw you chew on some candy but I do believe it is some kind of IB or Tylenol, medical suppressant of pain. Injuries during war is inevitable, that was how you ended here…"

The dark-haired man stood up suddenly and stared at Mycroft as if he had been electrified, but the older Holmes had already turned his attention to the blonde guard who uncrossed his legs and was beginning to rise from his chair, whilst Mycroft spoke.

"You, on the other hand, have never harmed me physically except for the chaining of my ankles. I could tell the difference of your touch. He," he nodded at the dark-haired guard, "was a seasoned field operator - who has killed many times over and has a different touch and different look in eyes when he attacks. That's mostly why he is in charge. But you, a person also in charge of torture, to not do his means is highly questionable. You allow your associate to do all the dirty work, which somehow got all his footprint all over my clothes…" Mycroft stopped to catch his breath, the pain in his body forgotten as he held the eyes of his two captors, both of which were gaping at him. "Yet the idea of you not fulfilling your task only suggests your unwillingness to involve yourself in a strife you consider not your own. What kind of agent would think this way? Only those who feel they have other masters to serve. Spying on the Home Secretary is common, but to find one in his very house, that is a very good position for an asset."

"Oi," the dark-haired man turned to his companion, eyes glazing. His companion didn't respond and returned Mycroft's look who squared his jaw for he knew what was to happen next. But he had to do it.

"You are a CIA agent planted to report activities of the Home Secretary, who is the face of the Cabinet, having been in charge. Obviously, you are born English, but stayed off the country that your Americanize habits are too easy to expose for instance— the way you cross your legs." He nodded at them both when they look at their legs mechanically but it was only the blonde man who was sitting now and had his legs untangled. Mycroft had seen through it. "Americans tend to place one an ankle near the opposite knee that forms a figure 4 whereas European men tend to cross their legs with their knees close together." The two men exchanged wary glances and Mycroft saw them slowly reach for their guns and had to close his eyes. "Our habits always expose us, gentlemen."

A tense silence fell as the two slowly looked at one another and then a fight ensued—their guns getting knocked out immediately after the quick draws, ending in a hand combat. One gun flew near Mycroft's feet and though it may be part of his calculation, the older Holmes hesitated to reach for it. He raised his eyes to the combatants who were both skilled, throwing and crashing each other on the floor with heavy thudding kicks, punches and headbutts. Mycroft soon saw who was going to win, his mind already seeing the pattern after watching their movements. Not planning to waste time, he took the gun, pointed it on his chains and pulled the trigger once that destroyed the chain, but the vibration of the weapon was too much for his weak hand that he hastily let go of it. The loud bang caught the attention of the blonde man, but his distraction caused him—he was grabbed on the back head by the sturdier enemy and slammed him face first on the wall once—twice—thrice—

Mycroft stood up with dizziness not helping him, he had to cling on the wall for support. Then as he looked up he saw the CIA agent already crumpling on the ground. He then found himself facing the dark-haired man, who turned to him and gave him a fixated look. To say that he was scared was an understatement. He looked into the man's pupils and it scared him. Why? Because it was there that he saw—he was about to be killed if he moved a muscle. Yet the gun was only on the floor, one quick grab and he will—

What will he do? Kill the man?

In the middle of his indecision, his assailant only made three steps before his big hand had wrapped around Mycroft's neck and pinned him on the wall, his feet leaving the ground. The older Holmes cringed and choked, his eyes watering at the strong grip, his consciousness, already at its limit, and starting to fade away.

"That was very smart," the man said genuinely intrigued, "you wanted us to kill each other?"

Mycroft tried gulfing but failed, his eyes tightly shut. With no sight at his disposal, his ears were ever sensitive that he could swear he can hear running footsteps coming from the distance.

"You're dangerous having played us like that." The man said meaningfully as he tightened his hold, "Mr. Geit says you will stay here until he says you're useless. We need your brain. He didn't say anything about you needing your legs, did he? So I have to go ahead and break it."

With a snap, Mycroft fell on the ground with a thud, coughing vigorously at his found air—not noticing that the man had taken the gun on the ground and was pointing it on his legs—the moment he realized this, Mycroft curled his body at the certain pain. He also calculated his physical disadvantages—he thought he could compensate by quickly shooting but his hesitation caused him his means of escape— there would be no way to escape with crippled legs—

_Then there was a loud crash again—_

Something large and dark seemed to have materialized out of nowhere and had taken the dark-haired man's shadow away from Mycroft. The older Holmes heard the crash and woozily opened his eyes— there he saw two men again in a hand combat—but the CIA agent's body was still on the floor, unmoving—so who could—?

But he first saw his familiar curly hair, followed by his familiar coat and Mycroft felt an overwhelming sense of relief escaped his lips. His appearance was a refreshing experience, Mycroft felt his eyes sting with tears and wanted to tell Sherlock he knew his brother would come no matter how long, yet the danger had not passed as he saw his brother got overpowered on the ground with massive strokes of fist landing on his arms, and shoulders as he tried to cover his head. The older Holmes tried to get up but his weak legs wouldn't allow him—that was when he saw the gun again and reached for it again— closing his clammy hand on the metal.

He pointed the gun, shaking as he did so with his left hand, his injured hand no more alive than the CIA agent. But Mycroft didn't pull for then Sherlock had managed to throw the man off him and was now holding him by the collar of his suit and was punching him nonstop. He would have had the upper hand hadn't it been for the fact that the black suit man was trying to grab the other gun that had fallen from the previous fight on the ground—

Mycroft saw this and pulled himself together— determinedly steadying his wobbling feet.

"Sherlock!" he called, stepping away from the wall finally, despite his unsteady movements—

Sherlock heard his call but his attention was also on the man's hand that successfully grabbed the gun—making the younger Holmes jump up hastily and move back towards his brother, still facing the enemy that had stood upon retrieving his weapon. Sherlock backed away in front of Mycroft and sensing the gun already pointed in their direction, he put himself between his older brother and the man.

"Sherlock…" Mycroft whispered, only seeing his brother's back and reaching for him.

"Stay back," Sherlock said grimly, but then felt his brother leaned on his back heavily as he lost his balance. He turned just on time to catch him kneel on the floor. "Mycroft!" Sherlock wrapped a hand around his back and was careful enough not to touch his injured shoulder. Kneeling beside him, Sherlock gasped when upon closer inspection he finally saw his older brother's tortured body. Bruised covered his skin, spots of blood were all over his white clothes, he was burning under his touch and his injured arm—Sherlock was stunned at the awkward position of the limp part—and even saw the markings of Geit's shoes—that was when he felt revulsion rose inside of him.

With eyes glinting sharply, he glared at the man holding them at gunpoint—

_"You did this?"_

"Wake him up, make him hand me the gun." Commanded the dark-haired man Sherlock had no problem identifying as a former officer for some time, but he didn't care. Mycroft had opened his eyes the moment he heard the man's order and caught his younger brother's eyes. Sherlock's face was passive, unreadable even, but his eyes were much more than enough to know the depth of his emotions. Above them, the guard was already waving the gun angrily. "I said make him stand up and give me the gun!"

"It's all over." Sherlock said, glaring up at the man again, his hold on his brother tightening, "We've already handed your master to rightful authorities. There's no reason for you to do any of this."

"What?" came the outraged reply.

"He'll kill us both." Mycroft replied as he looked at his brother who glanced at him, with the glint of anger in his eyes disappearing. "He's got nothing to lose and no evidence to leave…"

"Not if  _he_  can help it." Sherlock said and just when the words left his lips, a loud bang filled the air—making Mycroft jump if not for Sherlock's firm hold on his shoulder. There was a loud thud of metal hitting the ground and Mycroft looked up in time to see John Watson, small in stature but with the aura of an officer enough to command a squadron, holding a gun with its tip warm from a recent discharge, pointing at the guard who was holding a grazed hand that the doctor had shot. His gun that was expelled away lay across the room, leaving him open and staring at the unexpected backup.

"You two alright?" John called as Lestrade came running from behind him, coming from the stairs and bringing with him five more officers in combat gears. They filled the room at once, two men kneeling down the American spy.

"John," Sherlock called urgently and the doctor was already beside him just as Lestrade's men came arresting the dark-haired man who knew it was futile to resist.

"Oh, jesus…" the doctor muttered as he inspected Mycroft, saw his state and then shouted at Greg, "We need the medical team!" to Sherlock he muttered that he let the older Holmes lay on the ground after which he busied himself with opening his buttons and gasping at the wounds he saw. "This is…"

Sherlock was beside himself, with gritted teeth and pursed lips, eyes feasting on his brother's body. Looking down, he saw Mycroft blinking up at him, and coughing.

"It's going to be okay," Sherlock promised, wiping the perspiration off Mycroft's forehead, "John's got you. He's the best. How are you feeling?" It seemed like a stupid question but it was all the younger Holmes could ask to keep himself from murdering the suspects behind his brother's pain.

"Fine now," Mycroft whispered as he closed his eyes, "You've got gentle hands, Sherlock." He whispered, feeling his brother's hand on his uninjured shoulder, strong and reassuring and feeling his anxiety pulsate to him. It was the first time Mycroft felt safe and he smiled for it. Finally letting darkness, which he had been fighting from the start to consume him, he reached for his brother's hand, tapped it, and then sighed. "Glad to know."

And he succumbed into a long sleep.

* * *

**Began the End Part 2 of 2**

* * *

It was the white ceiling all over again for Mycroft as the next time he woke up, he found himself laid on comfortable white linen sheet of the hospital with strings on his arms and his chest, wearing a differently clean hospital gown and tucked in nicely in a very comfortable bed. He felt nauseated the moment he tried to take a gulp, but then felt his stomach was raw and empty. His lips were a bit dry and his limbs were all unknown to him. But at least he had his legs. It was one of those tricks of his brain that kept on playing the horror he had endured and the constant threat on his legs, albeit unusable to his former self as he had been told. What kept him from waking up with terror in his eyes?

_It's going to be okay._

Mycroft remembered Sherlock's words in his dreams and carried it like a talisman. He was one of those people able to tell the difference between a dream and reality and had often put Sherlock Holmes under interrogation, hoping that his subconscious would reveal something of the past—or at least make him remember finally.

But there was none.

The Sherlock in his dreams remained as a stranger except for the fact that they were brothers.

And that was when Mycroft realized he was never to get hold of the memories of his past, never again to know anyone the same way, and never again to have access to memories that made him  _him._  It broke his heart, yes, but he had to accept. All he was clinging on now was his recent experience, and the experience of Sherlock Holmes bustling in to save him not once or twice. It was a good memory, unlike the one where he woke up with extreme confusion of his identity, only remembering numbers of facts and secrets he could not understand. He was different in waking up now because now he had one thing to remember.  _He was not alone._

"Mycroft?"

The older Holmes blinked slowly, and then turned his aching neck to the man seated on the near chair. He found his brother in his black suit minus the tie, staring at him quietly although there was some trace of disquietedness in his eyes that Mycroft observed. It was the same look he had when Mycroft first remembered seeing him. Sherlock seemed tense, scared even. Was Sherlock afraid he won't recognize him again? Has he been waiting there like that?

" _Brothermine."_  He said with a small smile he could muster.

Relief washed Sherlock's countenance, but there was still some darkness that lingered in his eyes as he smiled softly at his older brother. Mycroft wanted to ask more, but knowing his body too weak, he managed to ease himself with the idea that Sherlock, too, was fine. He made this fact known, with silent exchange of words to his brother whose presence was enough to calm him. From the point, Sherlock had told him he had been asleep for three days and that he needed more to recover. Mycroft readily agreed and was just glad to know his brother was there when the next time he wakes up.

Two more days passed and Mycroft gradually was able to sit on the bed. It took plenty of tests and visits from his physician, but it was only after another two days that he was allowed visitors aside from his custodian, who was his brother. In the meantime, that two had shared each other's experiences, of how Sherlock finally got the Home Secretary, and how Mycroft had made his guards to assault each other, a question the younger Holmes had been curious for days as he found his brother with a violent guardsman and an unconscious man on the floor, wondering if his older brother had made the first moved.

"That was dangerous."

"I hoped they'd get rid of each other." Mycroft mused. "It was really fortunate you were able to get there, Sherlock, or I'll have to endure a long life with crippled legs."

Sherlock didn't respond.

During his recovery, Sherlock didn't leave his side, even when visitors came to pay visit. It surprised Mycroft of the number of visitors he had, especially from the 221B residents. There was always John who was very sweet and caring, bringing along his daughter that somewhat made Sherlock smile genuinely. Sherlock had been acting strangely in the past few days which Mycroft was sure he was trying not to be noticed, but the older Holmes did. In any case, the doctor did a physical examination of him, noting of his bruises that had darkened over time, his broken bones that were mended he now sports a bundle of bandages in his middle section, and finally his injured arm, which was nearly left useless, but recovering thanks to modern technology. Mycroft could barely feel his arm that was once again wrapped in a cask around his neck, but it was good to know that even the doctor thought it was not hopeless.

"Just try not to get abducted again as you heal. I'm sure it has a chance that way." John prescribed.

Then there was a lady carrying a flower who was small in stature with pale skin and sunken eyes, he recognized easily as a mortician a Molly Hooper who seemed to have a thing for his younger brother as what has been indicated on her file he read before. The funny thing was, the consulting detective seemed unaverse to it. There was a connection between them that was more than physical, and Mycroft silently grieve being unable to understand his brother's world because of his own shortcoming in memory. Then a police officer also came, a Detective Inspector Lestrade who brought the news that everyone involved in the abduction of the older Holmes had been in custody. He then introduced himself as Mycroft's trusted ally when it came to looking after his younger brother. Mycroft may have forgotten him but his gratitude for the easy-to-trust Detective Inspector was paramount as he thanked him nonstop for always helping his younger brother.

"To be fair, I'm the one always helping him." Sherlock told his brother, sounding sour at the attention Greg was receiving, who had blushed at Mycroft's praise, obviously in awe that the British Government Head whom he had served for a long time was recognizing his efforts. The older Holmes turned to him knowingly. He could still see something amiss his brother's behavior and wondered when Sherlock was going to open to him. He tactfully left it for a while as he spoke.

"Yes, but this is a gentleman who respects you, you might as well give him the same courtesy, Sherlock."

John, who had been there at that time, smirked at Sherlock as the younger Holmes expressed his thanks without ado.

"What about me?" the doctor said cheekily, "where's my thanks?" to which he received a glare, but Mycroft knew their mutual trust of each other and felt at ease. At least, even with him gone, Sherlock wouldn't be alone. In the middle of the argument of the two, a passing feeling of nausea filled Mycroft again that for a moment he felt his world go around him. Sherlock was immediately on his side, a firm hand on his good shoulder. It took Mycroft a moment to recover from the sudden spasm that was followed by a headache. That day, Sherlock advised everyone that his brother needed rest.

The next few days, more visitors came. There was Mrs. Hudson who was especially nice to him, bringing him tea and healthy food when he was able to eat and, on the doctor's, advise that he wondered if they had past friendship. He enquired this to Sherlock as he felt guilty for forgetting her.

In response, Sherlock smiled meaningfully. "She doesn't really hate anyone."

"Which means she doesn't particularly like me?" Mycroft observed as he sat on the bed while his brother still on his chair with a European crossed leg, "What did I do to receive such a good lady's ire?"

Sherlock made a face, "You didn't like her tea."

"That's a lie." Mycroft sighed, knowing well Sherlock's expressions by now and was still bothered by what Sherlock was still hiding from him. His younger brother felt the intensity of his gaze and looked back, at the exact moment as their last visitors came— _their parents._

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes had been spared all the detail of their son's abduction, mainly on Mycroft's wishes, and had been told he took a tumble in his safehouse after getting dizzy. Sherlock, who had understood his brother's side of not worrying their parents—a side of Mycroft that never changed from the beginning— piped up with the story that it was lucky he was there, otherwise Mycroft would have forgotten them all over again.

"A week and you're already back in the hospital bed?" Mrs. Holmes was beside herself, "I really will have to speak to your secretary. You will have to come home with me now."

"On the contrary, mother," Mycroft said with a small smile at the concern displayed but feel the need to point out, "I think it would do me good to stay with Sherlock for a while. I cannot be under your care or I'll grow too dependent of my own mother, and then what will that make me?"

"What's wrong with depending on your mother?"

Mycroft smiled with Sherlock and their father only watching them. "I want to establish control of my life again, dear mother. Please don't take it as your own misgivings, but of my own need. I have to take control."

His mother was against it in the beginning, but it was their father who had convinced her in the end and told her Sherlock will be with Mycroft in every step of the way, and that if she ever feels the need to cradle him, all they had to do was call Sherlock and have the boys visit them in their house. Being sensible enough as the Mrs. Holmes, she agreed but only after she had taken care of Mycroft now. She then placed a wonderfully large basket their father had left by the table and told Mycroft she will feed him regardless of his desire to be  _in control._

"Stop me if you can, Mike."

Mycroft sighed and obliged her. They did not leave for the rest of the day, giving Sherlock a time to slip away and disappear for an hour and a half. He said he just had something to take care of back in his flat but when he returned later, Mycroft observed his brother's shoes never left the building at all. Wondering what on earth his brother was doing, and why it seemed there was something heavy preying on his mind that he would not tell anyone, the older Holmes decided it was about time that he was told.

Especially if the secret involved him. Why else would his brother linger in the hospital if the people he sought were from the outside? So clearly, it all had something to do with him.

* * *

Following the night of their parents' visit, the Holmes brothers were left on their own again. Few visitors dropped by, including John again, alone this time, who came to inform them the Home Secretary had been publicly replaced after his resignation.

"The government will always have people like him." Mycroft said quietly, eyes on his younger brother who was seated on the lone chair near his bed while John stood on the other side of the older Holmes with arms crossed. "Politicians first and foremost long for power. I'd like to think I came in the picture as the government head to challenge them to try harder. Or straighten their ways."

"Has the Cabinet gotten in touch with you?" John looked at Sherlock who remained indisposed.

"Yes," Mycroft confirmed, "they've been asking for assistance… and I give them as much as I could. The Lady has authority on her own. She's informed me of the private investigation happening in every corner of Parliament, and the line they gave to CIA upon finding one of their spies deep in cover of the Home Secretary. I am inclined to think there will be further business with the American but seeing as their Chief in the White House is the main person in charge, I doubt this will be our last encounter with them."

John raised his head up. "Does that mean you're going back in your position?"

Mycroft looked mildly amused. "I did have fun exercising… authority during the time when I went with the Secret Service, but I don't think it's for me to decide." With that remark, he suddenly glanced at his younger brother, who raised his eyes up to meet his. "I think unless Sherlock tells me his news, the decision remains unclear."

John expectantly looked at his best friend with question in his eyes. Sherlock didn't even bother sitting properly, his back leaning on the chair in defeat. He held his older brother's gaze which had gone softer at the way Sherlock was looking at him gravely. Sensing something between the brothers' mood, John's eyes rounded in alert.

"Sherlock?"

"It's about my health, isn't it?" Mycroft said in a straightforward manner, making John look sharply at him, while Sherlock remained silent on his chair, his eyes hard. "You've been trying to keep it from me, but you know you can never hide it for long."

Sherlock lowered his eyes on the floor and stared at it for a long time that it looked as if something was to be uncovered from it, let alone make a hole. John now was looking panic stricken and Mycroft confirmed his hypothesis that his younger brother had never told anyone of the news. It also confirmed that whatever secret he bore, he was mostly to regret hearing it.

"Sherlock…" John had moved around and stopped at the foot of the bed in concern. "What's going on?"

But Sherlock was not to be moved. He kept his eyes burning on the floor, holding his hands together so tight, his knuckles were turning white at the pressure. Mycroft simply stared at him and could almost see his internal struggle.

"It's alright." He told him in a soft voice, catching his younger brother's eyes that had gotten bright with silent fear. Mycroft felt for him and smiled. "It's going to be alright, Sherlock. You can tell me."

And the brothers exchanged mutual understanding of shared courage as the older Holmes gave a small nod of encouragement. Sherlock sat straight and brushed his palm on his face, heaving a sigh deeply and closing his eyes tight.

John hung for his next word while Mycroft remained unruffled.

Sherlock draw out a breath and without lifting his head, he said, "The doctor said your amnesia will get worse. It's the bombing accident all over again. They weren't able to see it first, but now it was plain." He met Mycroft's eyes. "You have a tumor fast growing in your temporal lobe."

John's hands dropped on each of his sides weakly as he stared at his best friend, and then slowly to Mycroft. The older Holmes looked surprised but if there was anything that made him more like his former self, it was his ability to conceal his emotions. He didn't say anything for a while, and merely stared in a space as Sherlock buried his face on his palm.

Later, Mycroft spoke to his physician and with Sherlock and John with him, had learned that the accident was primarily the reason of the growing tumor. He was also informed that like the many who had been diagnosed, he would gradually lose his memories of the past, everything he had known, even simple facts. The right temporal lobe concerned with memory, was also mostly for speech production and making connections of words. There will be a time that Mycroft will forget how to process a simple letter, how to make a call and how to understand people and gradually, himself.

"What about an operation?" John asked in spite of himself. "If it's just growing—"

"We have recommended the surgery, and although the percentage of the patience survival is by half, that is still a good chance than any."

"Yet, when you do so, I'll be forgetting everything again, won't I?" Mycroft said without blinking, his emotions at bay.

"It shall be a clean slate, Mr. Holmes." Admitted the physician quietly, "But it should not affect your intelligence, nor your ability to create new memories. Without the surgery you will lose those memories too and would not be able to function fully as it will destroy your senses, your sight. With the surgery, your past memories will disappear, but you will live."

"Live as a man who's barely me." Mycroft said softly and he looked away, his eyes blurring with tears.

"Please, leave us." Sherlock said in a whisper, and though John knew Sherlock and Mycroft would not mind his presence, he stood up from his chair and followed the doctor out of the room. As he reached for the door's handle and prepare to close it, he distinctly saw Sherlock stood up from his chair and wrapped his arms around his brother, before finally closing the door shut. There he realized that a tear had already slid down his cheeks and hastily wiped it and staying outside the door with hands into ball of fists.

Days later, Sherlock's friends had been notified by the good doctor that the Holmes brothers will be out of London indefinitely for a vacation. Lady Smallwood had been aware of the matter, having visited Mycroft the very next day where he officially informed him of his resignation, and being good friends with her, had told her of his diagnosis. Sherlock said Lady Smallwood had been affected very much and offered to give Mycroft anything he needed. It was then they had decided that the brothers will go to Greece with their parents and that she would arrange everything.

It dawned on John on the day the brothers left that he will have to inform everybody once Sherlock gave him the cue. He stayed in 221B, exchanging emails with Sherlock for five months until the emails came no more. And John had to live with the idea that at least Sherlock was not alone, at least Mycroft was not alone. At least this time, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were given equal share to the family they built with sons who had put aside their genius and be as they were with people they care about.

London was dull without them, yet nothing ever changed with its politics and its people.

John had Rosamund too, and loved her dearly, keeping in mind how fast time will fly and before he knew it, she would not be as tiny as she is now, not as helpless and in need of him in the future, but until such time, baby Rosamund was his everything. There they lived in 221B with everyone.

Until an email came from Sherlock that sent John weakly on his favorite chair and to wrap his arms around his child. The email was short as it explained how Mycroft had passed away. They were on the Mediterranean with their parents, staying on one of the vacation houses. One day Mycroft just walked out into the ocean and he was never found ever since.

John embraced Rosamund as how he would want to embrace his best friend. Sherlock had told him in his previous letters how his older brother had been concerned mostly of losing himself more than anything. John had tried to reassure Sherlock that Mycroft would have to be convinced to stay strong, and that sooner or later he had to take the surgery.

But Mycroft didn't want to, Sherlock wrote, and as what Mycroft had told their parents long ago, he wanted to be in control. To take control of the little of his self that remained. Whether this was how the old Mycroft would want to end everything, John couldn't know, but he was sure Sherlock had a definite answer to that. He wanted to see Sherlock badly and he told him so in his reply yet the detective never got in touched with him.

There were no words from the consulting detective after. Not weeks, not in months.

It was as if Sherlock was swallowed by the Mediterranean with his brother but John had faith in him, and so he waited.

Until the time that Sherlock Holmes returns.

* * *

**THE END**

**~Epilogue~**


	12. Epilogue

***** **The Day My Brother** *****

_**by: WhiteGloves** _

_Warning for life and death decisions._

_Please be guided! And thank you for reading this last part :)_

_**The Day My Brother...** _

* * *

**EPILOGUE**

* * *

_At first, Sherlock thought Mycroft only needed time._

_He had been sure his brother would have agreed to take on the surgery to preserve his life, coaxing him that memories of the past were merely part of him, and that his future was bright still what with his given intellect and his family by his side. It was not easy to sway Mycroft, he had been depressed for the most part, but his eagerness to be with his family soon became his beacon and everyday it seemed he was clinging on to them for strength, to Sherlock mostly, that soon his fear began to grow less and his interest to life ignited. Yet, there were times that could not be helped as reality would often shake him, but Sherlock was truly very supportive. He vowed to himself that he would do everything to keep Mycroft alive, even if it meant dragging his brother out of the pit of his grave. He was more positive than ever, even going as far as contacting John after a month of being away from 221B to inform him of his plan._

_"I'm having his surgery prepared in a month." He whispered, his voice only enough to be heard by himself._

_"Has Mycroft agreed?" John's attentiveness vibrated through the mobile._

_"It isn't exactly his choice to make." There was a hesitant pause from the younger Holmes' line. "At least, not alone."_

_"You bet you shouldn't let him make drastic decisions."_

_"Even if he disagrees, I won't just let him deteriorate and die. He knows that. He knows my side full well."_

_"You? Not get noticed? I'd like to hear Mycroft talk about your nagging abilities. How's Greece?"_

_"White. They're all pretty into it, touring Athens and all the beaches. Somehow Mycroft developed penchant for beaches and the sun."_

_"You don't leave him alone, right?"_

_Sherlock raised his eyes as well as his voice._

_"Right now, he's a foot from me near the fireside, absorbed in moving pieces of woods in a building game."_

_"Jenga." Came Mycroft's quiet voice rose from the sofa, "It was first showcased in London on 1983 with name rooting from Swahili language of South-Eastern Africa 'kujenga' which means 'build'."_

_"Wood blocks." Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the thin, rectangular wooden blocks placed by threes atop each other as it made a tower while players take turn to remove blocks from any part without collapsing the 54 pieces._

_"You play those things now?" John was suppressing the temptation to snigger. "I remember bringing one in the flat, you threw it on the fireside saying you aren't some Norwood builder."_

_"Glad I tried throwing it once then." Sherlock sighed, "Well, according to my brother, Jenga's a good psychological game, are you aware of that?"_

_"What?"_

_"He was just lecturing me about it—"_

_"Mycroft's lecturing—? Didn't take it long for him to assume the older brother position again huh?"_

_"Apparently, he's still more mature than me, so he says."_

_"You need to open your mind to simplicity of things." Mycroft offered from where he was seated._

_"He's getting a kicked out of that." Sherlock continued, "Anyway, we've just returned from a long walk from the beach and he's particularly pensive."_

_"Glad to know he's gotten interested again…" John gave a sigh, "Is he physically okay?"_

_Sherlock purposely lowered his voice. "Aside from constant migraines he's alright. He refuses to stay clogged in the house. He's trying to be active."_

_"And you? Are you okay?"_

_"If you mean because he's beating me with wood blocks…"_

_"Sherlock." John could hear his best friend's deep sigh._

_"I'll be fine once he is. I'll get in touch."_

_"Got it. When will you be back?"_

_"The day my brother is better."_

_"Which would be…?"_

_"Soon."_

_Sherlock hung up and straightened up where he stood quietly for some time, then turning his eyes to his brother whose back was on him, he walked around the table that distanced him from the fire place and soon found himself sliding on the comfortable armchair he previously occupied._

_"Found the move yet?" he asked, his eyes on Mycroft who had his hands together with his chin on it, his eyes closed tight with perspiration forming on his forehead. Sherlock was immediately concerned. "Mycroft—?"_

_His brother opened an eye at him with an arched eyebrow._

_"Leaving in the middle of the game… you sure are full of confidence in beating me."_

_Sherlock snorted turned to the jenga tower with three pieces from the bottom already at the top level and still his brother hadn't moved a thing._

_"It's Jenga. The worst thing that can happen is to **not**  make it get any higher."_

_"Mm…" Mycroft reverted back to his thoughtful self, his keen silver eyes fixated on the wooden blocks. "I believe I was telling you about its metaphor to human psychology before you left."_

_"The only metaphor I could think of is to keep everything balance while trying to reach the top."_

_"That's one way of looking at it," Mycroft agreed, his eyes twinkling, "however, there were psychologists who claimed that a jenga tower is like a person's self-identity." He raised his slender fingers and began reaching for the tower's base while Sherlock watched as he went on, "Each of the blocks represents a central personal value, one's opinions and views of the world."_

_The tip of his hands touched the bottom but he didn't push it. Instead, he froze there, his eyes flickering. Then without warning, he raised his hand, pushed somewhere halfway on the top and managed to retrieve one which he easily put at the top. Then he eyed his brother._

_"They said if you move a block from the higher sections, the chances of damage are limited only to it and not enough shake one's foundation. Say for instance, you can easily change the flavor of ice cream you want for the day and it would not hurt you in any sense. Trivial things like this don't matter."_

_Sherlock humored his brother and reached for the middle part too, before placing it beside his brother's latter piece, saying, "And the closer you move a piece from the bottom suggests greater damage, even collapse as a whole?"_

_Mycroft's finger tips slid down the bottom blocks, his face impassive, "They said the blocks at the bottom are like human's foundation of oneself. Removing pieces from the bottom level could mean destruction of the person. One cannot change opinion on their political belief or religious belief as easily as choosing the next ice cream flavor. You cannot easily remove their personal conviction, otherwise…" he boldly pushed a piece from the edge of the second base and the tower shook slightly. Mycroft sighed and placed the piece at the top. "A person will lose a sense of stability. It would rob them of their identity."_

_Sherlock sat staring at the wooden blocks for some time, before having the courage to look at his brother._

_"Mycroft…" he could not put into words how he felt after the older Holmes' demonstration, but he stared fixedly at him._

_Mycroft raised his chin from his hand and looked his brother in the eye._

_"Removing blocks from the bottom would lead to the collapse of the whole thing." He repeated. Silence befell the brothers and the younger Holmes knew it was eating at the two of them. Sherlock full well his brother was now using this as metaphor to his future self. About how the disappearance of his personality would break him… It was moments like this that Sherlock wished again that Joh was around. Their parents went shopping together and it was during this time of seclusion that Mycroft's skeptical self would resurface, always catching his brother in surprise. Yet afterwards he would always smile it off, and Sherlock would be left pondering at his brother's words for he knew he meant them._

_In the silence that fell, Sherlock draw in his breath._

_"That's one way of looking at it." The younger Holmes countered, feeling a little vexed that his brother could be so himself at times like this, cynical and on point, yet they had always been the opposite side of coins with one besting the other. "Jenga is meant to be built from scattered pieces, Mycroft. If it collapsed, all we ever needed is build it again. One person cannot play this game alone. What do you think I'm here for?"_

_Mycroft gave him a blink, before closing his eyes again and heaving a sigh with a smile._

_"You always have a response for everything, huh?"_

_"John accuses me of always wanting the last word."_

_"So it seems." He closed his eyes again with curt on his eyebrows and Sherlock saw beads of perspiration on his forehead._

_"Shouldn't you rest?"_

_"Indeed. I think all this mental exercise has tired me out."_

_"That's why I keep telling you to stop overthinking." Sherlock watched his brother slowly stand up. "You know how the mind affects the body…"_

_"Mind over matter, I know." Mycroft gave his younger brother a soft smile. "But to be fair, my mind's never one to wander without a reason. Still… it's clear it's been stressed out. I can tell. Or is it the smell of the wooden blocks?"_

_"You stepped on a dog's dump while we were walking."_

_"I did no such thing. Excuse me, I'll wash my hands."_

_"I'll tidy up." Sherlock began collecting the wooden blocks one by one when he noticed his brother had frozen on the spot. Looking up, he saw Mycroft stood rigid for a moment as if uncertain of what to do next—and then to Sherlock's horror— the next thing he began falling down— Sherlock was on his feet in a second—_

_"Mycroft!"_

_Sherlock caught him on time, scattering the wooden blocks everywhere in the process as he almost tipped over the table with his speed. He caught his brother's arm and gripped him tight, his legs collapsing on the floor as he held his brother who then began to shake violently, rendering Sherlock into quick action and reaching for his brother's shoulder and putting him on his side, making sure his saliva would not block his breathing—and then grabbed his phone and called the emergency number._

_He was calm. He had to be. He prayed for John to be with him. Where were his parents?_

_The next event was as clear as daylight to Sherlock who stayed with his brother in his room, standing in the shadows as his parents spoke with the old doctor who had been assigned to tend to their needs under Lady Smallwood's order, while Mycroft slept, his seizure lasting only for five minutes, rendering him unconscious for the next hours that came. Sherlock was unable to think straight before the doctor said Mycroft was going to be fine._

_"This is his first collapse." Sherlock heard his mother said concernedly._

_"I'm afraid there will be more, and longer than the others. Worst, he doesn't wake up from one."_

_Sherlock's eyes shone in the dark and his father reached a hand around his mother's shoulder._

_"He was given six months…" she whispered breathlessly._

_"Give or take. If we don't hurry on with the procedure I'm afraid the sixth months will be cut short." The old Swiss doctor said gravely, "We have to convince him soon. It is fundamental the patient is clear with his objective of survival before subjecting him to fifty percent success operation."_

_"But he won't agree yet…"_

_"I'll make him." Sherlock said without hesitation, finally emerging from the shadows of the room. Everyone's eyes fell on him and he held their gaze as if warning anyone to oppose him. "I can make him agree. After this, I'm sure my brother would relent…"_

_There were hopeful sparks in his parent's eyes and thus the task was left completely to Sherlock who stayed by his brother's side the whole day and night. He sat there pondering as the sun disappeared on the horizon, leaving the sea and the sky with gnawing shadows and slap of the waves. He sat there thinking, like how he would do when he was left beside his sleeping brother, staring at his sleeping form and thinking of their past; their enmity, their grudges, their clashes, their loyalty, their companionship, their brotherhood for no other men was like them, that having at least one same soul beside them made them less lonely in this overcrowded world…_

_The younger Holmes put his hands together and bowed his head on it, his eyes closed tight. Sherlock's dilemma of how he would get Mycroft to agree was distressing him because he knew his brother's time was near._

_And he wasn't ready to lose him yet._

_Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he stirred but it was only because of Mycroft's voice that he came to and opened his eyes in the middle of the night. The lamp was still on and Sherlock's eyes fell immediately on his brother whom he found was sitting quietly on his bed with his back on the headboard watching him. Sherlock straightened and controlled the surprised gasp that nearly escaped him to find his brother awake. Relief washed all over him but he didn't speak of it. There was no need to alarm his brother further, he was just glad that he woke up again. Mycroft sat there with half his face hidden in the dark, but it was obvious that he was in full mastery of his faculties as Sherlock observed the intensity of the gaze his older brother was giving him. Just when he thought his brother may have forgotten again because that was how it was slowly going to be taken according to the doctor… no, this was still Mycroft._

_The younger Holmes had to clear his stricken throat._

_"How are you feeling?" his voice came out lamely._

_His older brother did not answer but continued staring at him transfixed. As if this was the only time he had taken a good look at him. Sherlock licked his lips when another minute passed and his brother still hadn't spoken._

_"You collapsed you know…" he said quietly, "I.. didn't know what to do."_

_Mycroft looked away, his jaws locking and somehow Sherlock found it easier to speak this time. Just to urge Mycroft to speak, he was ready to say everything that had jumped one after another in his mind the moment his brother fell down… his regrets above all that this was all his fault…_

_"I thought for a moment… I was going to be alone. That you're going somewhere I can't follow." He smirked after that, aware of the stinging of his eyes and the moist building there. "But you've never left me before, you know that?"_

_Mycroft refused to look back and had actually closed his eyes. Then without warning, he began to silently weep, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably that in the end he had to put his hands on his lips just to control himself._

_Sherlock frowned at this unusual behavior and had slowly began to rise from his chair. "Mycroft…?"_

_"I'm sorry…" the older Holmes choked in his silent tears, and gave his brother a wrenching look, "I'm so sorry… oh Sherlock…"_

_The call to his name in such a familiar fashion struck the younger Holmes the most._

_"Mycroft?" his voice trembled. "What did you…?"_

_"Oh brothermine, I'm so sorry…" was Mycroft's only words._

_And that was when Sherlock realized the bitter sweet truth._

_Mycroft's memory has returned._

* * *

The breeze of the strong wind hit his face, its saltiness tasted on his lips, his black, curly hair flying behind him. He had long abandoned the thick coat and blue scarf he typically dons and prefers the dark jacket and pants he wore. He was staring straight into the vast ocean, standing at the edge of the water with his leather shoes on the sand and kissing the tiny waves that reaches it, his footsteps from the cabin behind him left the only mark of his beginning.

He had been standing there for some time, the sun invisible with the gray sky, staring blankly at the horizon where the ocean and the sky met. It was never a fancy for him take notice of the sky except for the weather or identify secret aircraft hovering about. It was never for him to do  _nothing_  and be satisfied about it.

He welcomed the sound waves and the breeze of air which were the only thing he could hear in that empty land. There was nothing much to describe, save he was alone in the beach. Reminiscing the horror of the death of his only brother was still fresh to him and for the first few months he wanted nothing to do with other people. His parents had been devastated, but they had each other and Sherlock was certain they would find a way together. They always do.

In his case, he neither entertained the prospect of moving on nor forgetting that day. The day his brother made his final choice and took his final steps in the ocean one morning and never returned.

The day his brother left him forever to his end.

Sherlock and his family have had quite a shock at the sudden return of Mycroft's memory. He was immediately checked on by his doctors the next morning. By then the older Holmes had had composed himself and hadn't shown any more emotions unlike what he did on that vulnerable moment with his younger brother.  _He was just himself, calm and collected._

Sherlock never left his side even when he was asked to leave. He could not believe the turn of events, but he could believe that he was not one to abandon his brother again. Mycroft conceded and requested he stayed while he was examined by their private doctor. There were plenty of other tests that required Mycroft's actual visit to a nearest neurosurgeon's hospital but the two were stuck together like glue. There were tests that involved memory and Sherlock and his parents were there when his brother nearly narrated his life—till he reached Eurus—and had to use lighter words, especially when he was describing his job description, an Uncle Rudy and Sherlock's habit of disappearing during his college years. At that, Sherlock met his brother's eyes and welcomed his return with a small smile.

But their camaraderie did not last long as it was Mycroft himself who had to open up the discussion about his nearing  _death_ and his  _acceptance of his fate,_ claiming that he had always been prepared for it. Sherlock who knew the works of his older brother's mind did not say anything till he heard his catch phrase—

 _"Everyone dies in the end."_  He said in his chilling matter-of-fact tone.

Typical of Mycroft. Sherlock didn't argue with him. He didn't even speak with him on the way back to their cottage where he knew their parents would appeal to him, especially for his consent on the surgery to which Mycroft still refused to partake.

_"For godsake, I'm already dying, mother. What's the point of prolonging an inevitable end?"_

Even Sherlock knew it was a lost battle for them.

But not to him.

 _"You know you don't want to die."_   _Sherlock had told him one evening as he sat at the foot of his brother's bed who was already preparing for his rest. Mycroft had gone accustomed to his younger brother's presence, having remembered everything from the moment he woke up after the bombing, Sherlock's actions, his own actions and everything else that happened, that he didn't mind him. In fact, Sherlock was sure Mycroft was amused by him._

_"Well, Sherlock, you shouldn't really try to put your own opinion to other people. Less of all to me." Mycroft arched an eyebrow, "I know you don't want me to die… you do not know what I want, however."_

_"It's fairly obvious." Sherlock gritted his teeth._

_"Therefore, why tell me the opposite of the obvious?" Mycroft smirked, "Don't let emotion cloud your judgment, brothermine. It'll save you the pain and unnecessary heartache."_

_"You're not unnecessary!" Sherlock said flatly._

_Mycroft gave him a small smile. "You flatter me."_

_"Look, I know it's hard to decide—" Sherlock went on more aggressively—_

_"It's not even open for discussion." Mycroft's tone became firm. "_

_"WHY WON'T YOU WANT TO BECOME BETTER?!" Sherlock found himself shouting out of the blue._

_He remembered Mycroft staring at him quite sternly. It was then that Sherlock realized he had said too much but before he could say anything else, Mycroft had shaken his head._

_"You really think I would become… in your words… 'better'?"_

_Sherlock dropped his head, not wanting to see the pain in Mycroft's eyes. He saw a flash of it hidden in his older brother's cold expression—the expression he would usually wear even when he was at his most turbulent point. All because he was Mycroft Holmes._

_"Mycroft, I—"_

_"You want me to take the surgery that would ultimately wipe off my memory. Everything I am, everything I believe, everything that made me me… To have myself forget again… is that in any way 'better' brothermine?"_

_"Then how would you want me to convince you?" Sherlock retorted, at the point of exhausting his means to save his brother, realizing that there was nothing left and getting frustrated by it._

_"How would you want me to convince you that I am better off dead?" Mycroft retorted back._

It was a stalemate after that. Sherlock refused to inform John of the development, feeling too vexed to write that his brother would opt to die than continue to live his life. It was a family matter, indeed which he would gladly share to his best friend later but everything felt too personal then. And much surreal to which Sherlock felt he had no control over.

Sherlock also felt that he had higher chance of convincing his brother to live when he hadn't yet recovered his full memory. Now that he did, he knew his chances turned slim because he had to deal now with his over-scheming and over-confident to die  _older brother._

_"I swear, Mycroft if you do anything…" he warned his older brother one day as they sat together outside the porch, listening to the waves and to Mrs. Holmes in the kitchen while they observed the changing weather above the ocean and easily deduced rain showers for days. It had been two weeks since Mycroft recovered his memory and his inclination to death's door not diminishing till then._

_"Even if I don't I'll still die."_

_Sherlock squared his jaw and closed his eyes. "What of me?" he had asked suddenly, using his final trump card._

_Mycroft arched an eyebrow towards him, an easy smile on his lips._

_"What of you? You're a rightfully grown man, you should be able to navigate your life, Sherlock, as you see fit."_

_Sherlock pursed his lips and looked back. "It'll be a godawful dull world without you… so don't leave me alone."_

_There was a poignant silent where there were only the ocean waves, the wind and the brothers' breathing_

_"You won't be." Mycroft replied simply, eyes on to the ocean once more, but he was already far away and Sherlock felt that his brother was ready to move on. "Humans are made to survive with others, brothermine, and you've got a really nice family back in London."_

_"But you're part of that family!"_

_"I am, but my time is near and it's something I do not wish to extend. Do not think of it as something of your shortcoming, brothermine. This is me making a choice, and you have to understand the importance that I be the one to decide. I had barely any grasp of my former self and I fear should I lose myself again, I will not be me but a vessel, filled with nothing that holds me of the past. Another completely different person. It is sadness more than fear, Sherlock that drives me to be firm. And you will be constantly reminded of the lost even when I lived but see a different person."_

_The dark clouds amassed in front of them but the brothers remained outside the porch, their teas untouched. Sherlock could feel the turbulence of his own heart and the premonition of his brother's next actions._

_"But you're able to come back like now."_

_"Imagine losing myself the second time."_

_"I'll help you. At least you're alive."_

_"And feel deader than I should be." Mycroft paused as if he was remembering something, before sighing. "As I keep on repeating… we all die in the end brothermine, people get sick… children with cancer… it's all out of our control. What we can control is how we go…it's all about how we go in the end."_

_"Most people do their best to stay alive and yet you—"_

_Mycroft turned finally, and Sherlock saw the glint of something he hadn't seen in his eyes before. Resolution._

_"And I am not 'most people'. You know that."_

_"That's why I think you should make the smart choice." Sherlock gritted his teeth. "Your amnesia has not touched your soul back then, Mycroft. It barely made any difference, you're still you. Or is it because you think I cannot bring you back like I did the last time?"_

_"Stop thinking you are god, Sherlock."_

_The younger Holmes sharply looked at his brother, but Mycroft merely heaved a long sigh and shook his head; his eyes were lost in the ocean and Sherlock saw from how his lips sat firm together, how his eyebrows laxed into complete peace, how his silver eyes was lost in his own understanding of life and death, that was when Sherlock realized his brother had made his choice as he uttered his final words:_

_"I'm sorry."_

_And when he heard those words, Sherlock was oblivious to the lone tear that slid down his left cheek._

* * *

Sherlock had been on guard with Mycroft after that but nothing seemed to have changed with him. He was his usual self, sarcastic to him and their parents and less interested with the news outside except everything his younger brother was saying. He likes to listen to Sherlock playing though, it was something of an improvement. He likes sunset the most, and bonfires in the evening. He was contemplative during the rain but amicable when Sherlock joins him. But he was mostly aloof when he walked out in the shore while Sherlock watched out for him. He never let him out of his sight. Then after two more months of refusing any surgery, Mycroft became ill. So ill that walking was no longer applicable for him. His head was always in pain, he couldn't sleep well let alone eat well that soon he lost weight. Sherlock stopped corresponding with John, too preoccupied of his brother's condition.

Then there would be days that he would be able to stand up and walk around the house and drink tea like nothing happened. Mrs. Holmes would always scold him for it, always ready with an additional warm blanket in case the older Holmes wanted to stay in the sofa where he and Sherlock would play—in Mycroft's term— _despicable jenga._  When Sherlock asked him if he remembered the psychology of it, Mycroft essentially replied:

_"Of course. Why else do you think I always have it on hands reach? It's a constant reminder of what will happen to me if I allowed such surgery anywhere near my brain. The only thing I regret about all of this is I can no longer send it to the Medical Society. It's been damaged."_

_"Yep. Turned you delusional."_

_"I knew you'd say that. I could hear your voice in my head." Mycroft grinned meaningfully._

_"As usual your humor astounds me." Sherlock muttered and vowed to throw the pile of jenga on their fireside. He never left Mycroft's side. He never meant to. And he never meant for this to be their last game either._

Until that morning when his older brother gave him the slip. Sherlock had woken up late to find his brother's bed empty. Concerned, he dashed in the kitchen where he had found his parents fixing breakfast with no brother on sight. They haven't seen him and thought him asleep. Sherlock ran out to the porch, saw his brother's footsteps onto the sand that lead ultimately into the ocean.

And Mycroft's body was never found and Sherlock never left the shore.

It was just like Mycroft to come and go as he pleases.

Months passed and here he was, still staring into the vast ocean, wondering of life, his brother's choice, and how even when he tried, in the end Mycroft was right, his life was not for his brother to control. He had found a note left by his brother days after his disappearance that wrote:

' _I want to go as Mycroft Holmes. You cannot control this brothermine except this: keep living. This is my final wish.'_

Sherlock berated Mycroft for his selfish request, for even when he had ended everything by himself, it was always those who were left behind that was made to suffer the most. Yet he could never condemn Mycroft, not his only brother whom he only felt respect. Not his only brother who had suffered greatly because of him. Not Mycroft who had chosen his own path he had seen fit for himself. Sherlock knew his brother well. It was his pride to be Mycroft Holmes. He would never have succumbed to his fate.

Still, Sherlock wished Mycroft was alive. He would give anything… anything at all.

But this was a world with ugly truths, this was a world where not every one could be saved. This was a world where every human was fated to make the same choice as his brother in their everyday life— _to live or to die._

People live as a choice.

People die as a choice.

Sadly, Sherlock and Mycroft had always been the opposite pole. But didn't his brother say  _they were not 'most people'?_

Sherlock walked along the shore in the misty day with the waves the only sound echoing in his ears. He was waiting, like everyone else. Waiting for the pain to pass. Waiting for the moment he would be ready to move on and go back to 221B with John and his other family…

But it was not today, nor the following months. Pain was real. Pain was inevitable for those who  _care._  Sherlock would like to throw that to his brother's face someday. Maybe he will because despite everything he wanted to believe he will see Mycroft again in whatever world it may be. The only time Sherlock Holmes believes in mightier power that would allow him to see that day—

_The day he meets his brother again._

**The End.**

* * *

**Thank you for everything :)**


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